LIBfxARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF 
CALIFORNIA 

SAN  DIEGO 
V ^ 


l^M/i^ 


-r^ 


\ 


4" 


presented  to  the 
UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
SAN  DIEGO 

by 

Mrs.  Jane  Adams 


yohn  <iAyscough^s  Jitters 
to  his  z^l^other 


JOHN     AYS  COUGH  S     MOTHER 


John  ^yscough's  Jitters 
to  his  <LMother 

DURING        191  4,      I9I5,     AND      I916 

EDITED    WITH    AN    INTRODUCTION 


BY 


FRANK  BICKERSTAFFE-DREW 


lyj)ji 


lie* .  '\> 


W 


NEW  YORK 

P.  J.  KENEDY  &  SONS 

1920 


COPYRIGHT,     I9I9 
BY    r.    J.    KENEDY    &    SONS 


To 

Jean^  J^dy  Hamilton 

THIS    BOOK 
IS   DEDICATED    BY    HER   KIND    PERMISSION 


INTRODUCTION 

IT  has  seemed  to  me  possible  that  there  might  be  a 
welcome  for  this  volume  of  letters  from  my  cousin  to 
his  mother:  partly  because  of  the  peculiar  sense  of 
personal  friendship  for  John  Ayscough  continually  testi- 
fied by  his  readers,  by  readers  who  have  never  met  him, 
and  (living  far  from  England)  probably  never  will  meet 
him;  and  partly  because  all  who  are  his  readers  must 
know  by  how  rare  a  bond  of  love  and  devotion  he  and  his 
mother  were  united. 

The  letters  contained  in  this  volume  were  the  last  he 
ever  did  write  to  her,  and  they  were  written  during  his 
absence  on  Active  Service  in  France  and  Flanders:  two 
circumstances  which  I  have  thought  might  give  them  a 
special  interest.  For  five  and  twenty  years  Ayscough's 
mother  had  been  in  every  sense  dependent  upon  her  son: 
...r  many  years  she  had  hardly  suflFered  him  to  leave  her, 
even  on  the  briefest  absence:  she  was  eighty-five  years 
old  and  in  most  precarious  health.  His  departure  for 
the  front  was  a  blow  from  which  she  never  recovered: 
the  blow  which  did  in  fact  bring  her  long  life  to  its  end. 
Knowing  well  how  this  almost  must  be,  it  was  her  son's 
one  preoccupation  to  bridge  that  absence  as  much  as  was 
simply  possible  by  unfailing  frequency  of  letters,  and 
further,  by  seldom  in  those  letters  allowing  her  to  picture 
him  as  in  danger  or  discomfort.  He  wanted,  if  he  could, 
to  make  her  imagine  him  as  enjoying  a  complete  change, 
full  of  interest,  and  having  no  drawback  but  the  separa- 
tion from  herself  that  it  involved. 

To  say  this  is  necessary,  or  the  letters  can  hardly  be 
understood:  they  are  all  bright  and  cheerful,  and  succeed 


viii  Introduction 

in  giving  an  account  of  some  of  the  hardships  without 
making  them  depressing. 

John  Ayscough's  mother  was  EHzabeth  Mona 
Brougham,  daughter  of  the  Rev.  Pierce  WilHam  Drew, 
for  twenty-five  years  Rector  of  Youghal,  of  Heathfield 
Towers,  Co.  Cork.  She  was  born  on  October  3,  1829, 
and  was  one  of  seventeen  children  (of  whom,  however, 
many  died  young),  and  was  baptized  at  the  parish  church 
of  Shandon,  the  bells  of  which  formed  the  subject  of 
Father  Prout's  most  famous  lyric. 

At  six  years  of  age,  in  consequence  of  a  difference  of 
opinion  with  her  governess,  she  informed  that  lady  that 
her  eyes  (which  the  owner  of  them  esteemed  fine)  "were 
like  two  burnt  holes  in  a  blanket."  The  culprit,  haled 
before  her  mother,  was  informed  that  her  conduct  rendered 
her  unfit  for  education  at  home,  and  told  to  prepare  for 
immediate  withdrawal  to  the  establishment  of  a  Christian 
lady  at  Cork.  To  the  Christian  lady,  a  Mrs.  Bailey,  the 
small  Mona  was  accordingly  dispatched  per  coach;  and 
she  proved  a  very  sensible  person,  in  whose  charge  the  child 
was  not  unhappy.  Being  so  much  younger  than  any 
other  pupil,  she  got  much  petting,  far  more  at  school 
than  had  ever  been  her  lot  at  home.  From  Mrs.  Bailey's, 
Mona  Drew  was  later  on  moved  to  the  "finishing  establish- 
ment" of  a  Miss  Oakley,  for  whom  all  of  her  pupils  seem 
to  have  entertained  a  kind  of  worship.  Once  finished, 
Mona  returned  home  and  "came  out"  under  the  tutelage 
of  her  only  elder  sister  Matilda.  Throughout  life,  Matilda 
and  Mona  were  devoted  to  each  other,  which  speaks  well 
for  the  younger  of  the  two,  on  whom  their  mother  was 
always  impressing  the  superiority  of  Matilda  in  beauty, 
character  and  accomplishments. 

It  was  at  this  time  that  John  Ayscough's  mother  had 
her  one  and  only  romance.  She  was  extremely  popular 
and  pretty,  with  rich  blue  eyes,  very  dark  brown  hair, 
almost  black,  and  all  her  life  had  the  sweetest  expression 
conceivable. 


Introduction  ix 

For  one  of  her  many  devoted  admirers  she  felt  what  was 
undoubtedly  the  great  love  of  her  life.  He  appears  to 
have  been  a  charming  man  of  excellent  character,  ample 
means,  and  with  every  quahfication  for  making  a  fit 
husband;  but  although  a  gentleman  he  was  not  suffi- 
ciently aristocratic  to  satisfy  her  father's  ideas,  so  was 
dismissed  in  such  a  fashion  as  to  lead  him  to  believe  that 
the  young  lady  herself  thought  him  beneath  her.  She 
also  was  deceived,  and  allowed  to  imagine  that  he  had 

no  serious  intentions.     Captain  W then   exchanged 

into  a  regiment  bound  for  service  in  Canada,  and  swore 
to  his  friends  that  he  would  never  marry  unless  he  heard 
of  the  marriage  of  the  girl  he  loved.  It  happened  that 
he  read  of  it  in  a  newspaper,  while  staying  in  a  hotel, 
and  his  terrible  emotion  attracted  the  attention  of  a 
stranger  sitting  near.  Thinking  that  the  officer  was 
taken  ill,  he  offered  sympathy  and  help;    they  became 

acquainted  and  Captain  W presently  explained  the 

cause  of  his  trouble:  that  the  one  creature  he  had  ever 
loved,  and  who  he  believed  had  truly  loved  him,  had  cut 
herself  off  from  him  for  ever  by  marriage  with  another 
man.  The  other  man  was  Ayscough's  father,  the  inti- 
mate friend  and  fellow  collegian  of  the  clergyman  whom 
Mona's  elder  sister  had  married. 

It  was  in  185 1  that  she  married  the  Rev.  Henry  Lloyd 
Bickerstaffe,  third  son  of  the  Rev.  Roger  Bickerstaffe, 
Rector  of  Boylestone,  Co.  Derby.  Those  who  have  read 
John  Ayscough's  Fernando  will  recollect  that  the 
marriage  was  not  much  approved  by  the  parents  on  either 
side,  nor  was  it  fortunate;  perhaps  husband  and  wife 
were  unsuited:  at  all  events  it  ultimately  came  to  a 
complete  separation  shortly  after  Ayscough's  birth,  on 
February  11,  1858. 

Readers  of  Gracechurch  and  Fernando  will  remember 
John  Ayscough's  first  recollections  of  North  Wales,  his 
mother  having  moved  to  Llangollen  about  a  year  after 
his   birth.     Mrs.    Bickerstaffe,   besides   having   the   care 


X  Introduction 

and  educating  of  her  three  boys,  used  to  write  stories 
and  novels.  Owing  to  her  many  other  industries,  which 
took  up  the  greater  part  of  the  day,  the  only  time  for 
writing  was  at  night.  The  stories  would  now  be  called 
short  stories,  but  they  were  much  longer  than  the  average 
short  story  of  to-day;  many  of  which  appeared  in  The 
^ueen.  It  was  during  this  time  Ayscough's  mother  took 
a  departure  from  the  ordinary  and  wrote  a  novel  of 
Japanese  life  called  Araki  the  Daimio,  which  was  reckoned 
very  clever. 

During  her  life  most  of  her  spare  time  was  devoted 
to  natural  history,  and  she  made  wonderful  collections  of 
ferns,  mosses,  moths,  butterflies,  and  fossils,  also  sea  and 
land  shells.  As  you  can  see,  the  love  of  nature  was  not  in 
Mrs.  BickerstafFe  the  pastime  of  an  idle  woman,  because 
it  necessitated  a  great  deal  of  cHmbing  and  very  long 
walks:  how  it  was  she  managed  to  find  time  to  do  so  much, 
to  bring  up  her  children  and  write  novels,  I  don't  know. 

Mrs.  BickerstafFe  had  among  her  acquaintances  the 
Dr.  Arthur  Adams  who  wrote  Travels  of  a  Naturalist  in 
Manchuria  and  Japan,  which  I  believe  is  still  read  by  lovers 
of  natural  history. 

John  Ayscough,  who  was  quite  a  small  boy  at  this  time, 
went  with  his  mother  to  stay  with  Dr.  Adams  and  his 
wife  at  Rockferry,  opposite  Liverpool.  One  evening 
Mrs.  Adams  gave  an  intellectual  evening  party,  which 
did  not  include  such  frivolities  as  music  and  singing, 
but  was  "a  feast  of  reason  and  a  flow  of  soul."  The 
guests  not  having  dined,  owing  to  the  early  hour  of  the 
party,  were  beginning  to  feel  rather  hungry,  when  about 
one  o'clock  in  the  morning  Mrs.  Adams  provided  a  very 
light  supper,  consisting  of  jellies,  biscuits,  etc.  Little 
Johnny,  who  had  heard  about  dinner  parties,  wanted  to 
know  if  this  was  one,  so  he  said  to  a  young  naval  officer 
who  happened  to  be  standing  near  him:  "Could  you 
tell  me  what  meal  this  is?"  to  which  he  repHed,  "God 
only  knows,  my  child." 


Introduction  xi 

Mrs.  BickerstafFe,  besides  being  pretty,  was  very 
witty  and  entertaining  and  full  of  anecdote.  Ayscough, 
when  quite  small,  was  invited  to  a  dinner  party  with  his 
mother.  The  life  and  soul  of  the  party  was  Mrs.  Bicker- 
stafFe, who  amused  her  friends  by  telling  one  anecdote 
after  another.  Her  fellow  guests  were  all  amazed  and 
wanted  to  know  how  she  managed  to  remember  them 
all,  when  little  Johnny  exclaimed  rather  loudly:  "Oh, 
she  doesn't  have  to  remember  them  for  long,  because 
she  keeps  them  in  a  little  book."  Of  course,  everybody 
went  into  shrieks  of  laughter,  except  his  mother,  who  being 
deaf,  didn't  hear:  but  when  it  had  ceased,  she  wanted 
to  know  what  it  was  all  about,  and  on  being  told  could 
not  help  laughing  herself.  This,  I  think,  will  give  a  little 
idea  of  her  sweetness  and  good  nature. 

Added  to  her  many  industries  and  occupations,  Mrs. 
BickerstaflFe  played  the  piano  well  in  spite  of  her  deafness, 
and  like  Lady  Bertram  in  Mansfield  Park  she  did  em- 
broidery and  crochet,  which,  by  the  way,  she  did  not 
start  until  she  had  passed  her  seventieth  year,  and  as  in 
the  case  of  her  painting,  had  no  lessons,  but  taught 
herself  and  went  on  continually  improving,  till  the  end, 
so  that  some  of  her  finest  work  was  done  shortly  before 
her  death. 

In  1864  or  '65  Mrs.  Bickerstaffe  moved  to  a  small 
town,  near  the  Welsh  border  of  Shropshire,  described  in 
Gracechurch.  This,  as  is  told  in  the  book,  was  done  in 
order  to  place  her  boys  at  the  locally  famous  school  of  the 
Vicar;  who,  however,  died  a  week  or  two  before  her 
arrival. 

In  1868  Ayscough's  father  died;  in  April,  1870,  his 
mother  married  Charles  Brent,  one  of  the  eight  sons 
of  the  Rev.  Daniel  Brent,  D.D.,  Vicar  of  Grenden  in 
Northamptonshire,  in  whose  church  the  wedding  was 
solemnized  by  himself,  assisted  by  one  of  his  sons. 

John  Ayscough  gives  a  very  interesting  portrait  of  his 
mother  in   Gracechurch   and   Fernando:    "My   mother  in 


xii  Introduction 

her  soft  lavender  silks,  looked  lovely,  and  I  was  as  proud 
and  pleased  as  if  it  had  been  arranged  by  me.  God 
knows  she  had  had  sorrow  enough,  and  if  an  aftermath  of 
gentle  prosperity  and  happiness  was  now  to  be  reaped  by 
her,  she  deserved  it  all;  and  I,  at  least,  could  see  nothing 
but  cause  for  joy  in  it." 

It  was  in  December,  1880,  that  Ayscough's  mother  took 
leave  of  him  at  Euston  Station,  for  Liverpool,  where  she 
embarked  for  America,  Mr.  Brent  having  bought  a  ranch 
in  Texas. 

A  day  or  two  afterwards  Ayscough  left  Cardinal 
Manning's  house,  where  he  had  been  staying,  for  St. 
Thomas's  Seminary,  Hammersmith,  where  he  made  his 
studies  for  the  priesthood.  A  few  months  earlier  Mrs. 
Brent  had  followed  her  son  into  the  Catholic  Church. 
She  was  happy  in  her  new  life  in  Texas;  happy,  indeed, 
it  was  her  genius  to  be  everywhere;  but  the  life  was 
much  too  rough,  the  work  too  hard  for  one  of  her  years, 
and  the  food  unfit  for  one  who  was  rapidly  becoming  an 
invalid.  But  her  old  resources  did  not  fail  her;  Nature 
was  all  around,  and  for  her  it  was  ever  full  of  absorbing 
interest;  she  sketched  and  painted  more  than  ever;  and 
then  her  sketching  made  demands  not  only  upon  her 
skill,  but  upon  her  courage,  for  the  scenes  of  her  painting 
had  to  be  sought  in  the  wild  and  lonely  brakes,  the  homes 
of  panthers,  wild  cats,  and,  much  worse,  of  innumerable 
rattle-snakes:  she  was  always  quite  alone,  and  it  will  be 
remembered  that  she  was  so  completely  deaf  as  to  be 
unable  to  hear  the  nearest  sound  without  the  aid  of  her 
speaking  trumpet.  Her  husband,  Mr.  Brent,  would 
often  expostulate  upon  the  danger  of  those  solitary  ram- 
blings,  but  she  would  laugh  and  declare,  "I  am  so  fat  that 
only  a  very  hungry  panther  would  think  of  eating  me,  and 
as  I  can't  hear  the  rattle-snakes  rattle  they  never  frighten 
me. 

After  a  dozen  years  it  was  decided  that  her  only  hope 
of  life  was  to  return  to  England  and  to  rest,  and  in  the 


Introduction  xiii 

summer  of  1892,  she  joined  her  son  at  Plymouth,  where 
he  was  MiHtary  Chaplain,  and  with  the  exception  of  his 
period  of  Active  Service  in  France  and  Flanders,  during 
the  Great  War,  they  were  never  again  separated. 

John  Ayscough  has  often  told  me  of  his  horror,  almost 
dismay,  at  first  meeting  his  mother  on  her  return  from 
Texas.  He  had  been  scanning  the  faces  of  the  passengers 
in  his  search  for  her,  and  had  already  more  than  once 
glanced  earnestly  at  one  very  old,  broken-down  lady, 
in  amazing  clothes  of  at  least  a  dozen  years'  standing, 
without  in  the  least  recognizing  her.  Presently  she 
smiled,  asked  a  question,  and  held  out  her  battered 
speaking  trumpet.  In  her  smile  he  recognised  her: 
but  it  was  literally  a  shock  to  find  in  this  wholly  broken, 
terrified-looking  woman  of  extreme  age,  his  mother,  whom 
he  had  last  seen  looking  fairly  young,  certainly  not 
beyond  middle  age,  upright,  and  with  a  face  bright  with 
cheerful  courage.  He  says  that  though  she  lived  a 
,  quarter  of  a  century  longer,  she  looked  many  years  older 
>  at  her  first  return  from  Texas  than  at  the  time  of  her 
i  death,  and  was  more  bowed  in  figure:  she  was  in  fact  not 
sixty-three  years  of  age  on  her  return  to  England  and 
looked  very  much  more  than  ninety. 

If  she  had  been  left  a  few  more  weeks  in  Texas,  the  rough 
work  and  hard  toil  would  no  doubt  have  killed  her.  This 
journey  across  the  Atlantic  she  made  entirely  alone,  deaf, 
in  shattered  health,  and  in  a  very  inferior  boat  —  as  she 
sailed  from  a  small  port  in  Texas  itself  to  avoid  a  long 
railway  journey.  With  astonishing  rapidity  she  recovered 
health,  spirits,  and  cheerfulness,  in  a  comfortable  home, 
under  the  charge  of  an  excellent  doctor;  with  good 
nursing  and  attendance  and  good  food,  she  very  soon 
lost  the  look  of  extreme  age,  and  recovered  her  upright 
carriage,  her  happy  expression  and  abundant  interest  in 
life.  The  mother  and  son  remained  seven  years  at 
Plymouth,  till  1899,  the  reunion  seeming  an  almost 
incredible  joy.     With    a   very    large    social    circle    Mrs. 


xiv  Introduction 

Brent  was,  as  she  had  everywhere  been  throughout 
hfe,  much  more  than  popular.  The  affection  of  these 
kind  friends  was  a  pecuhar  dehght  to  her;  and  the 
beauty  of  the  country  round  Plymouth  afforded  endless 
scope  for  her  talent  in  water-colour  drawing. 

In  March,  1899,  John  Ayscough  was  ordered  to  Malta, 
and  she  accompanied  him.  The  voyage  she  thoroughly 
enjoyed,  and  very  soon  she  had  as  many  friends  in  Malta 
as  she  had  left  behind  at  Plymouth. 

During  the  six  years  of  her  stay  there  (without  a  visit 
to  England)  Mrs.  Brent  never  seems  to  have  had  any 
sense  of  exile,  and  was  certainly  never  bored.  Here,  too, 
there  was  plenty  of  scope  for  her  many  talents.  With 
her  son,  she  explored  every  corner  of  the  island,  sketch- 
ing, collecting  flowers  and  studying  the  archaeology  of 
the  place. 

During  the  six  years  in  Malta,  John  Ayscough  and  his 
mother  made  many  visits  to  Italy  and  Sicily  —  visits 
which  have  fruit  in  Marotz,  San  CelestinOy  and  A  Roman 
Tragedy.  Also  they  visited  France,  Switzerland,  and 
North  Africa  —  the  fruit  of  which  journeys  is  Mezzo- 
giorno,  Admonition,  and  several  of  the  stories  in  Outsiders 
and  In. 

Travelling  was  an  immense  joy  to  her  and  especially 
was  she  delighted  by  a  trip  to  Crete.  One  of  the  many 
wonderful  things  she  did  during  her  life  was  devoting  her 
seventieth  birthday  to  an  ascent  of  Vesuvius. 

During  this  six  years  in  Malta,  Mrs.  Brent  was  pre- 
sented for  the  second  time  in  private  audience  to  Pope 
Leo  XIII,  and  in  1904,  for  the  first  time,  to  Pius  X. 

At  last,  in  March,  1905,  they  returned  to  England,  and 
Salisbury  Plain  became  their  home. 

After  less  than  four  years  at  home,  John  Ayscough  was 
ordered  on  a  further  tour  of  Foreign  Service,  to  last 
probably  for  five  years,  and  she  determined  to  go  with 
him.  At  her  great  age,  how  could  she  expect  ever  to  see 
England  again?     Early  in  March,  1909,  they  sailed  from 


Introduction  xv 

the  Port  of  London  for  Malta,  for  it  was  to  Malta  they 
were  to  return. 

It  was  a  bitterly  cold  day,  with  deep  snow  everywhere, 
and  heavy  snow  falling,  but  she  trudged  on  bravely,  her 
son  expecting  any  minute  to  see  her  fall  and  there  breathe 
her  last.  It  was  at  least  half  a  mile  to  walk  from  the 
train  to  the  docks,  and  not  a  conveyance  of  any  sort 
could  be  had.  A  very  devoted  friend  of  his  came  and 
brought  a  beautiful  bouquet  of  roses,  which  seemed  to 
give  her  fresh  strength  to  continue  that  miserable  walk. 
After  being  less  than  a  quarter  of  an  hour  on  board,  she 
was  talking  and  joking  about  herself  to  complete  strangers 
as  though  she  found  life  full  of  amusement. 

They  were  welcomed  in  Malta  by  many  old  friends, 
though  many  were  gone.  A  charming  house  was  soon 
found,  with  a  pretty  garden  full  of  fine  flowers,  but  Mrs. 
Brent  could  no  longer  enjoy  things:  through  the  eight 
months  of  this  second  stay,  she  was  too  ill  for  anything 
but  a  wistful  longing  for  home.  The  doctors  said  it 
must  be  home  or  a  prompt  end;  and  her  son  had  to 
purchase  an  exchange  home  and  obtain  War  Office 
sanction  for  it. 

At  the  end  of  October  they  started  for  England.  The 
voyage  itself  did  good  and  by  the  time  they  reached 
London  she  was  out  of  danger;  she  was,  in  fact,  destined 
to  live  seven  years  longer,  though  with  frequent  more 
and  more  alarming  illnesses.  Within  a  few  weeks  of 
her  return,  Mrs,  Brent  received  from  Pius  X  the  Cross 
of  Leo  XIII  "Pro  Ecclesia  et  Pontifice"  in  gold,  an 
honour  which  she  told  her  son  "made  her  feel  very 
humble,"  having,  as  she  considered,  done  so  little  to 
deserve  it. 

Immediately  on  the  outbreak  of  war,  Ayscough  was 
sent  to  France  with  the  first  British  Expeditionary 
Force,  and  in  December  he  returned  to  England,  as  he 
thought,  for  good.  I  need  not  describe  the  joy  and 
happiness   it   gave  his   mother   to  see   him   back   again, 


xvi  Introduction 

perfectly  safe  and  in  his  old  home,  but  alas!  it  did  not 
last  for  long.  On  the  morning  of  February  8,  191 5,  he 
received  orders  to  return  to  France  immediately. 

I  am  sure  my  readers  will  realise  what  a  blow  it  was  to 
them  both:  the  news  came  in  the  early  morning.  He 
jumped  out  of  bed,  told  his  dear  mother,  dressed,  had 
breakfast,  and  was  out  of  the  house  within  an  hour  and 
a  half  of  receiving  his  orders.  When  he  returned  in 
December,  he  had  been  told  that  he  would  be  released 
from  Active  Service  and  continue  duty  at  home.  Like 
her  other  troubles,  his  mother  took  it  all  bravely,  and 
considering  her  age  and  state  of  health,  kept  cheerful. 

About  the  beginning  of  November,  191 5,  Ayscough 
became  very  ill,  but  continued  his  work  until  the  doctors 
discovered  how  bad  he  was  and  insisted  on  his  going  into 
hospital,  which  he  did,  but  not  until  the  third  week  of 
January,  1916.  The  day  after  his  admission  into  hospital, 
he  underwent  a  serious  operation,  but  luckily  got  through 
successfully.  He  was  then  sent  to  a  hospital  in  London, 
where  he  underwent  another  operation,  but  only  slight 
in  comparison  with  the  first,  and  after  being  there  about 
a  fortnight,  he  returned  home.  The  medical  board  then 
offered  him  a  few  months'  sick  leave,  but  he  only  accepted 
a  month  on  condition  that  if,  at  the  end  of  that  time  he 
was  unfit  for  duty,  further  leave  would  be  granted;  this 
proved  unnecessary  and  he  resumed  duty  at  home  in 
Salisbury  Plain.  But  after  this  second  shock,  his  mother 
could  never  believe  that  he  was  home  for  good;  every 
day,  every  post,  she  expected  that  orders  would  come 
and  take  him  away  again.  The  strain  at  last  proved 
too  much  for  her,  and  in  July  she  died.  Oh!  what  a 
terrible  loss  it  was  for  Ayscough;  I  don't  think  there 
ever  was  a  more  deep  love  and  affection  between  any 
mother  and  son  than  between  these;  they  were  everything 
to  each  other. 

In  the  last  chapter  of  French  Windows  he  says,  "For 
his  first  remembered  impression  of  life  was  the  realisation 


Introduction  xvii 

that  he  was  his  mother's  son,  and  almost  the  next  his 
reahsation  of  the  terror  lest  he  should  lose  her.  The 
dread  of  that  loss  remained  ever  afterwards  the  only 
real  dread  of  his  life:  no  sorrow,  no  misfortune,  threatened 
or  fallen,  seemed  to  affect  the  substance  of  happiness  so 
long  as  that  supreme  calamity  was  spared.  For  fifty- 
eight  years  it  was  spared,  and  for  that  immense  reprieve 
he  can  but  cry  his  thanks  to  Divine  patience. 

"That  the  calamity  fell  upon  his  life  during  the  writing 
of  these  pages,  must  make  this  to  him  a  different  sort  of 
book  from  any  that  he  has  written,  must  make  of  the 
whole  book  a  lingering  farewell." 

Owing  to  the  recent  date  of  the  letters  and  their  dealing 
with  living  people,  it  has  been  necessary  to  omit  much, 
and  unfortunately  much  that  constituted  by  far  the  most 
entertaining  portion  of  them. 

Ayscough's  first  period  in  France  was  spent  at  the 
front  with  the  fighting  troops,  while  the  latter  part 
consisted  of  garrison  and  hospital  duty  at  Dieppe  and 
Versailles. 

The  two  periods,  I  think,  make  a  fascinating  contrast 
and  an  interesting  volume  of  letters. 

Frank  Bickerstaffe-Drew 


John  ^yscough's  Jitters 
to  his  ^^ACother 


John  ^yscougF  s  Jitters 
To  His  <J)fCother 


I 

Railway  Station,  Salisbury 

My  own  Darling  Mother:  I  send  this  by  the  chauffeur 
to  bid  you  another  good-bye,  and  to  thank  you  very, 
very  much  for  having  borne  this  cruel  smack  of  fortune 
so  well.  It  makes  it  so  much  better  for  me  your  doing 
so. 

God  bless  and  keep  you,  dear,  and  bring  me  soon  back 
to  look  after  you. 

Oh!  for  Peace. 

Dublin 
Sunday,  i  o'clock 

It  seems  a  hundred  years  since  we  parted,  and  this 
is  my  first  opportunity  of  writing.  I  will  go  back  to  the 
beginning  and  tell  you  exactly  how  I  have  got  on. 

My  dear,  my  dear,  how  good  and  noble  it  was  of  you 
to  be  so  brave  and  cheerful  at  our  actual  parting:  it 
made  the  pain  of  leaving  you,  and  of  saying  good-bye, 
so  much  easier  to  bear.  But  I  do  hope  that  you  did  not 
collapse  when  I  was  gone. 

At  Salisbury  station  there  was  Mr.  Gater  come  to  see 
me  off  and,  though  the  train  was  an  hour  late  starting, 


2  John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

he  stayed  on:  I  thought  it  very  nice  of  him,  and  he  was 
most  cordial,  friendly,  and  sympathetic.  I  am  sure 
you  and  Christie  may  always  send  to  him  if  you  want 
any  male  assistance:  he  did  not  offer  his  services  as  a 
matter  of  form  —  but  as  if  he  really  meant  it.  I  travelled 
up  very  comfortably  with  Captain  George  Herbert, 
brother  of  Lord  Pembroke,  and  we  talked  the  whole  way; 
he  knows  scores  of  people  I  know,  and  we  had  lots  to 
say,  besides  he  is  a  Territorial  and  frightfully  keen  about 
the  army  and  the  war. 

It  was  dull  but  quite  fine  when  we  got  to  London.  I 
first  telegraphed  to  you,  then  went  straight  on  to  Euston 
in  a  taxi.  For  a  quarter  of  an  hour  my  taxi  was  going 
at  a  foot-pace  beside  a  detachment  of  Lancers:  the 
young  officer  called  out  to  me:  "Off  to  the  front,  sir?" 
and  began  talking.  He  said  all  his  detachment  were 
recruits  who  had  joined  the  night  before;  they  looked 
tired,  but  marched  pluckily:  they  were  not  going  to  the 
front  but  only  to  St.  Albans,  where  they  are  to  train  for 
some  months  to  fill  up  gaps. 

In  the  street  I  saw  Cardinal  Gasquet  walking  with  his 
Secretary.  After  putting  my  things  in  the  cloak-room 
I  had  tea;  went  for  a  walk;  came  back  and  had  dinner 
in  the  Euston  Hotel  and  then  secured  a  good  place  in 
the  Irish  Mail. 

I  had  one  entire  side  of  the  carriage,  and  slept  lying 
down  comfortably  till  Holyhead.  Then  I  had  some  tea 
and  went  below;  I  had  a  large  six-berthed  cabin  to  my- 
self, and  was  able  to  undress  and  make  myself  very  com- 
fortable, and  so  slept  till  6.30;  then  I  got  up  and  washed 
and  dressed,  and  went  ashore  (not  intending  to  go  up  to 
Dublin  till  8.45),  when  I  took  a  jaunting-car  and  went 
off  to  Monkstown  to  find  Helen  and  Jack. 

I  found  their  house  but  it  was  shut,  and  the  creepers 
much  overgrown  over  the  door,  so  I  suppose  they  have 
been  long  away,  visiting. 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother  3 

I  had  breakfast  and  got  off  my  telegram  to  you:  then 
we  came  up  to  Dublin  and  I  heard  Mass  (I  could  not  say 
it,  having  had  tea  after  midnight  on  my  journey).  Then 
the  Church  of  England  chaplain  attached  to  the  same 
ambulance  as  myself  and  I  took  a  car  over  to  Phoenix 
Park,  where  our  ambulance  is. 

The  Commanding  Officer  was  not  there,  but  his  Adju- 
tant told  us  there  was  no  tent  for  us,  and  that  we  could 
only  be  allowed  thirty-five  pounds  of  baggage  —  about 
as  much  as  my  roll  of  rugs  alone.  However,  after  about 
two  hours'  waiting  and  discussion,  I  got  the  C.  O.  to 
agree  to  my  proposal  that  I  should  be  allowed  to  take 
my  stuff  on  to  the  base,  and  there  discard  almost  all  of 
it  —  that  will  enable  me  to  find  some  convent  where  I 
can  leave  it,  and  where  it  will  be  more  within  reach 
than  if  I  left  it  behind  here. 

Also  I  found  an  empty  tent  in  another  camp  joining 
ours,  and  they  allow  me  to  use  it:  so  that  I  shall  have  a 
place  to  sleep  in  to-night  and  to-morrow  night. 

I  hope  you  will  be  sitting  in  the  garden  this  lovely 
afternoon.  Do  keep  well,  my  darling;  that  is  what  I 
am  praying  all  the  time;  do  keep  well,  and  let  me  think 
of  you  as  well  and  cheerful  in  the  beloved  home.  I  love 
it  far,  far  more  than  you  do:  and  it  is  like  an  anchor  to 
every  happy  thought  to  recollect  it,  and  you  in  it. 

God  bless  you  both;  bid  Christie  keep  a  good  heart, 
and  let  her  know  how  I  thank  her  in  advance  for  all  her 
care  of  you. 

We  are  quite  in  war  conditions  —  no  tables,  chairs, 
beds,  baths,  washing-stands  —  nothing  but  the  ground 
and  our  rugs! 

St.  Fra?icis  Xavier's,  Upper  Gardiner  Street,  Dublin 

Monday,  10  am.,  August  17,  1914 

I  HAVE  fallen  among  most  kind  and  hospitable,  friendly 
and   pleasant   people,   with   whom   I    am   staying.     The 


4  John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

letter  I  wrote  you  yesterday  was  written  in  the  parlour 
of  a  little  fifth-rate  hotel  just  outside  Phoenix  Park, 
where  I  had  luncheon.  After  finishing  my  letter,  I  got 
on  a  tram  and  came  in  to  the  city,  getting  off  at  "Carlyle 
Bridge"  as  the  Unionists  call  it,  "O'Connell  Bridge"  as 
the  Nationalists  call  it.  Thence  I  walked  up  O'Connell 
Street  (Sackville  Street)  and  presently  met  two  young 
priests,  who  saluted  and  began  to  talk.  (All  the  priests 
here  are  full  of  friendliness).  I  told  them  I  wanted,  if  I 
could,  to  get  a  light  altar-stone,  instead  of  the  very 
heavy  one  I  brought  from  our  chapel  at  the  Manor 
House.  They  said,  *'We  are  Jesuits,  from  Gardiner 
Street  Church,  St.  Francis  Xavier's  ...  go  up  there 
and  ask  for  one."  Well,  I  came  here,  and  the  Father 
Minister  (Housekeeping  Father)  instantly  said  I  must 
stay  here.  He  found  the  Rector  and  Father  Provincial, 
and  they  would  not  take  any  refusal;  I  must  be  their 
guest  till  we  embark. 

They  sent  Father  Wrafter  (the  Father  Minister)  out 
to  the  camp  in  Phoenix  Park,  to  fetch  in  my  baggage  in  a 
taxi;  that  was  really  just  so  that  I  should  not  be  at  the 
cost  of  bringing  it  in  all  that  long  way  myself.  And  so 
here  I  am,  very  comfortably  installed,  and  made  a  very 
great  deal  of. 

After  dinner  we  had  great  talk  and  smoking:  all  the 
Fathers  here  (there  are  about  twenty)  seem  admirers  of 
my  books. 

The  Rector  and  Provincial  are  charming  men:  and 
to-night  the  latter  is  taking  me  to  dine  with  his  brother 
at  Kingstown. 

I  said  Mass  this  morning  at  the  altar  I  send  you  a 
postcard  of.  One  of  the  Fathers  insisted  on  giving  me 
all  these  cards  to  send  to  you. 

This  house  is  very  large  and  fine:  most  comfortable. 
But  what  I  like  best  in  it  is  the  universal  spirit  of  hos- 
pitality and  kindness  of  the  Jesuits  themselves. 

I  slept  uncommonly  well,   and  so  did  not  begin  my 


John  AyscougV s  Letters  to  his  Mother  5 

camp  life  with  last  night,  as  I  had  expected.  I  said  Mass 
early,  had  an  excellent  breakfast,  and  then  they  showed 
me  the  house,  church,  library,  etc.  And  now  I  am 
writing  this  to  you;  I  hope  you  are  getting  on  all  right; 
presently  I  shall  go  out  to  post  this  and  will  telegraph 
to  ask  how  you  are.  I  shall  be  here  till  about  nine  o'clock 
to-night;  then  go  to  camp;  and  to-morrow  morning,  I 
believe,  we  embark. 

August   18,   1914 

It  is  6.30  A.M.  on  Tuesday,  and  we  march  off  from  this 
camp.  Phoenix  Park,  in  half  an  hour. 

I  think  it  almost  impossible  that  you  can  hear  anything 
from  me  for  days  now.  We  are,  I  believe,  going  to 
France,  and  will  take  some  days  to  get  there:  and  a 
letter  would  take  some  day  or  two  to  return.  Besides, 
it  is  quite  possible  they  would  not  let  us  write  at  first, 
or  even  telegraph  —  they  are  so  determined  to  hide  all 
the  movements  of  our  troops. 

I  just  write  this  to  say  good-bye.  I  don't  quite  know 
how  I  shall  get  it  posted.  I  dined  at  Kingstown  last 
night,  with  the  Provincial  of  the  Jesuits  and  his  brother, 
at  a  charming  hotel  on  the  sea-front.  Then  we  trained 
into  Dublin  and  came  over  here  in  a  taxi:  I  cannot  tell 
you  what  the  hospitality  and  kindness  of  those  Jesuits 
have  been. 

Last  night  was  my  first  under  canvas  this  time  and 
I  was  very  comfortable. 

Do  tell  the  Gaters  I  have  been  so  incessantly  on  the 
rush  it  was  impossible  to  arrange  a  meeting  with  Cyril. 
Lots  of  priests  have  been  calling  here  in  camp  "to  see  the 
great  Mr.  Ayscough,"  but  none  have  caught  me. 

I  was  so  delighted  to  get  your  two  telegrams  and  to 
hear  you  were  all  well.  Mind  you  keep  well  and  in  good 
spirits.     Best  love  to  dear  Christie. 

I  had  a  charming  letter  from  Mrs.  Drummond.     Her 


6  John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

husband  has  gone  to  France  on  the  Headquarters  Staff 
of  the  2d  Army. 

Dublin 
Tuesday,  August  18,   1914 

We  are  safely  embarked;  and  much  more  comfortable 
it  is  than  the  camp. 

We  left  camp  about  7.30  this  morning,  and  the  long 
line  of  waggons,  with  the  big  sections  of  men  marching 
between,  looked  very  picturesque. 

Phoenix  Park  is  extraordinarily  beautiful —  1756  acres 
of  it  —  with  the  Dublin  mountains  for  background 
and  the  exquisite  flowers  and  trees  for  foreground.  The 
weather  is  beautiful  and  absolutely  fine,  but  not  too  hot. 

I  have  a  charger,  rather  a  nice  horse,  not  badly  bred, 
and  quite  well  educated  and  behaved.  But  I  let  my 
servant  ride  him  from  camp  to  this  ship,  and  sat  cocked 
up  on  an  ambulance  waggon;  it  was  quite  interesting, 
and  also  quite  comfortable. 

The  distance  is  about  seven  miles,  two  of  park,  and 
five  of  city  and  docks,  and  all  along  the  way  people  were 
gathered  in  groups  to  see  us  go  by.  The  Irish  are  en- 
thusiastic about  the  war  and  the  Emperor  of  Germany 
would  have  a  painful  experience  if  they  could  handle  him 
according  to  their  desires. 

I  sat  so  high,  cocked  up  on  my  ambulance,  that  my 
purple  stock  attracted  instant  attention,  and  drew  forth 
innumerable  salutes:  "God  bless  you.  Father,"  "Come 
back  safe.  Father,"  etc.,  etc.  At  one  corner  there  was  a 
big  group  of  men  and  they  called  out,  "Three  cheers  for 
the  priest"  —  which  were  given  accordingly. 

At  another  point  there  were  a  lot  of  women  waving 
little  Union  Jacks  —  this  is  "disloyal"  Ireland. 

General  Drummond  has  gone  out  with  the  2d  Army  on 
the  Headquarters  StaflF  of  it.  If  you  like  you  might 
write  to  her,  at  Trent  Manor,  Sherborne,  Dorset. 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother  7 

It  is  now  about  11.30,  and  we  shall  probably  not  sail 
till  seven  o'clock  this  evening.  I  must  not  tell  you 
where  we  are  going:  but  it  is  no  further  off  than  Belgium; 
I  seize  all  these  opportunities  of  writing  because  soon 
there  must  come  a  time  when  we  cannot  get  letters  off. 

It  is  awfully  comfortable  on  board  ship  after  camp. 
I  have  a  cabin  to  myself  and  no  one  else  (out  of  sixty 
officers)  has.  It  is  very  comfortable,  and  I  quite  long 
for  bedtime,  to  go  to  bed  in  it!  In  fact  I  probably  shall 
not  wait  till  bedtime,  but  have  a  sleep  after  luncheon. 

I  left  my  brown  vahse  at  the  Jesuits,  with  the  things 
I  am  sending  home.     Here  is  the  key  of  it. 

The  altar  stone  should  be  put  back  in  the  chapel  on  the 
altar:  the  papers,  etc.,  in  the  bureau  drawer,  where  I 
told  you. 

No  more  room.  God  bless  you  and  cheer  you,  my 
dear! 

S.  S.  City  of  Benares 
Thursday,  August  20,  191 4 

We  are  just  entering  harbour,  and  I  must  get  a  short 
letter  ready  to  post  whenever  I  get  the  chance.  They 
say  the  best  address  will  be  "No.  15  Field  Ambulance, 
c/o  the  War  Office,  London,  S.  W.,"  and  it  is  a  little 
shorter  than  c/o  Sir  Charles  McGrigor,  etc. 

We  sailed  the  night  before  last,  about  7  p.m.,  and  the 
scene  was  very  touching.  There  was  a  crowd  of  sweet- 
hearts and  wives  on  the  quay,  with  other  folk,  too; 
the  other  folk  all  cheers  and  shouts,  the  poor  women  all 
tears.  Our  voyage  lasted  about  forty  hours  ...  it  is 
just  after  breakfast,  and  we  are  slowing  in  along  the 
quays;  they  are  covered  with  people  waving  handker- 
chiefs and  calling  out,  "Vive  I'Angleterre!"  "Hip,  hip!" 
and  our  men  yell  out  "Vive  la  France!"  and  as  much 
of  the  Marseillaise  as  they  can  sing.  It  seems  a  fine 
harbour     and     a    gay,     prosperous-looking    town.     The 


8  John  Ayscough^s  Letters  to  his  Mother 

streets  run  right  down  to  the  quays,  and  are  not  squalid 
streets  like  those  that  melt  into  the  quays  at  Dublin. 
Our  voyage  was  charming,  the  weather  exquisite,  and  the 
sea  a  great  silver  mirror.  Yesterday  morning  we  were 
quite  close  in  to  Land's  End,  which  I  had  never  seen 
before.  We  ran  parallel  to  the  peaceful  coast  for  hours, 
then  drifted  south.  The  channel  seemed  full  of  shipping 
and  commerce  in  spite  of  the  war  .  .  .  which  shows  how 
effectually  our  navy  protects  it  —  and  you. 

I  had  a  service  for  my  men  yesterday  morning  and  gave 
them  all  scapulars.  From  luncheon  till  7  p.m.  I  was 
hearing  confessions,  one  hundred  and  twenty-seven  of 
them;  it  was  splendid.  I  think  every  Catholic  on  board 
came. 

The  ship  has  messed  us  for  five  shillings  a  day,  and 
"done  us"  very  well  .  .  .  excellent  plain  food:  and  they 
were  only  bound  to  supply  hot  water!  I  got  your  letter, 
written  on  Sunday,  and  the  parcel  of  letters  Christie 
forwarded,  just  as  we  sailed  from  Dublin. 

I  was  so  glad  and  so  happy  to  get  such  good  accounts 
of  you:  do  keep  it  up.  Be  well,  cheerful,  sanguine; 
and  /  can  be  happy.  I  cannot  tell  you  how  many  prayers 
I  have  offered  for  you,  and  how  serenely  fixed  I  feel  in 
God's  protection  of  you. 

We  hear  on  arriving  that  the  Germans  are  driven 
back  all  along  the  line,  that  the  French  occupy  the 
Vosges  valleys  and  that  the  Germans  have  left  many 
wounded,  guns,  etc.  behind  them.  I  must  not  tell 
you  the  name  of  this  place,  but  perhaps  the  postmark  will 
tell. 

Best  love  to  Christie  and  the  Gaters.  I  have  managed 
to  get  ashore:  we  stay  here  till  to-morrow,  when  we  go  on 
somewhere,  twenty-two  hours  by  train;  we  don't  know 
where. 


John  AyscougV s  Letters  to  his  Mother  9 

15  Field  Jmbulance,  Expeditionary  Force 
Friday  f  August  21,  19 14 

I  AM  going  to  try  and  write  you  a  little  letter  or  begin 
one  at  all  events  .  .  .  We  are  in  Rest  Camp  and  arrived 
here  last  night  at  dark;  nobody  knows  how  long  we  are 
to  stop:  perhaps  a  day  or  two;  and  perhaps  we  go  on  to 
our  "base"  to-day.  The  camp  is  about  four  miles 
outside  the  town. 

After  I  wrote  to  you  yesterday  I  watched  the  horses 
and  men  disembark.  It  is  rather  amusing  watching 
them.  .  .  .  They  have  to  run  up  a  sort  of  chicken- 
ladder  to  the  main  deck,  then  down  another  to  the  horse- 
deck,  and  some  of  them  kick  up  awful  trouble  over  it. 
I  got  leave  to  go  into  the  town,  and  had  some  luncheon, 
then  bought  a  few  things  —  a  celluloid  collar,  a  large 
water-proof  sheet,  a  "Brassard"  (arm  badge  with  Geneva 
Cross,  to  mark  one  as  a  non-combatant),  a  haversack, 
valise,  etc. 

Then  I  got  a  warm  bath  at  some  swimming  baths,  and 
walked  about. 

There  is  not  much  to  see.  The  town  is  large,  pros- 
perous and  pretty,  but  not  old,  and  the  churches  are 
nothing  much. 

About  6.30  I  came  out  here,  on  my  own,  with  a  young 
gunner  officer:  and  waited  for  my  "unit"  to  arrive: 
it  looked  very  picturesque  when  they  did,  the  light  almost 
gone,  the  camp-fires  quickly  blazing  up. 

I  am  really  the  "senior  officer"  of  the  "unit"  and  was 
the  only  one  to  be  allotted  a  tent  to  myself:  but  the 
Church  of  England  chaplain  was  to  be  one  of  three,  so 
I  gave  him  half  my  tent. 

I  was  delighted  to  see  my  baggage  again:  I  hadn't 
seen  it  since  Monday  at  Dublin,  and  was  very  dirty. 
Then  we  had  supper  —  bread  and  tinned  salmon.  We 
are    regularly    on    field-service    lines    now.     No    chairs 


lo         John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

or  stools,  tables,  etc.  It  looked  rather  picturesque,  the 
group  of  us  huddled  on  the  ground,  each  with  his  platter 
and  pannikin,  no  light  but  a  single  candle  crammed  into 
a  bottle-neck. 

Almost  immediately  after  supper  we  went  to  bed: 
I  lent  my  new  sheet  and  the  bigger  of  my  old  ones  to  the 
officer  in  the  next  tent  who  had  none,  but  I  was  quite 
warm  with  what  I  had. 

When  I  began  this  it  was  pouring  rain,  accompanied 
by  thunder  and  lightning,  and  looked  like  rain  for  the 
whole  day:  but  it  soon  got  fine  again.  I  am  writing  in  my 
tent,  sitting  on  my  bed  with  the  black  box  that  used  to  be 
under  your  bed  for  a  table.     It  is  quite  convenient. 

Some  say  we  shall  be  here  a  week:  some  that  we  shall 
go  on  to-night  to  Amiens.  I  would  much  rather 
push  on. 

I  am  very  happy  except  for  your  being  left  to  miss  me. 
God  send  a  speedy  end  to  the  War  (I  am  the  only  officer 
in  the  British  army  that  says  so,  I  daresay).  It  has 
certainly  killed  our  beloved  Pope.  I  read  of  his  death 
(that  took  place  in  the  early  morning  of  yesterday) 
yesterday  afternoon,  with  pain  and  sorrow.  He  was 
plunged  into  grief  by  the  prospect  of  this  war,  and  im- 
plored the  old  Austrian  Emperor  not  to  begin  it.  The 
war  will  have  no  nobler  victim.  Yesterday  in  the  streets 
they  were  selling  by  way  of  joke,  *'The  Last  Will  and 
Testament  of  Wilhelm  II." 

As  far  as  we  can  judge,  the  war  is  everywhere  going 
against  Germany  and  Austria;  but  of  course  there  has 
been  nothing  decisive  yet. 

I  find  it  so  hard  to  realize  that  I  am  part  of  an  Expe- 
ditionary Force  engaged  in  a  huge  war;  it  is  all  so  exactly 
like  manoeuvres.  But  no  doubt  we  shall  realize  it 
presently,  when  we  get  to  our  line,  and  the  wounded  begin 
to  come  in. 

It  is  twenty  to  eleven  in  the  morning  (Friday  morning) 
and  you  are  sitting  up  working  in  bed.     It  seems  about 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother         ii 

a  year  since  I  was  at  the  Manor  House,  and  yet  I  was  there 
a  week  ago. 

To-day  Mary  comes  home  to  you.  You  must  excuse 
these  scraps  of  paper;  I  was  very  lucky  to  find  any;  and 
still  luckier  to  have  brought  a  fountain  pen  with  me. 
There  is  no  pen  or  ink  in  camp.  The  French  are  uncom- 
monly civil,  but  not  (I  think)  so  truly  cordial  as  the  Irish, 
though  we  are  *'out"  in  their  quarrel. 

Everyone  says  the  German  Emperor  will  commit 
suicide:  the  Crown  Prince,  they  say,  is  wounded,  —  who 
knows  anything?  On  each  side  of  the  huge  armed  wall 
there  is  ignorance  and  talk. 

I  think  I  must  stop.  I  write  plenty  of  letters,  but 
never  feel  sure  of  your  getting  them.  I  post  them  all 
myself,  but  some  say  every  letter  is  opened  and  held 
up  if  not  approved. 

At  least,  if  you  suffer,  it  shall  not  be  through  my 
neglect.  I'm  sure  you  read  my  letters  to  Christie,  or 
give  them  to  her  to  read,  so  I  only  send  her  brief  messages. 
I  am  truly  sorry  for  her,  for  I  know  how  she  would  hke 
to  be  back  at  Blackheath.  If  by  any  chance  Alice  were 
ill,  and  she  had  to  go  to  her,  would  you  like  to  have 
a  Blue  Sister  to  stay  with  you?  Good-bye.  Do  keep 
well  and  cheerful. 

Havre 
Saturday,  3.30  p.m.  August  22,  1914 

Here  I  am,  writing  you  a  letter  from  an  hotel,  seated 
at  a  civilised  table,  with  an  ordinary  pen,  and  a  very 
imposing  sheet  of  paper.  It  seems  quite  odd;  though 
I  only  left  Dublin  on  Monday  night  and  then  took  to  my 
tent,  I  feel  as  if  I  had  not  been  under  a  roof  for  ages! 

I  think  it  more  amusing  and  more  healthy  to  live  in  a 
tent;  but  certainly  rooms  and  tables  and  chairs  are 
rather  convenient.  As  there  is  no  danger  at  all  of  this 
letter  being  "censored,"  I  suppose  we  may  as  well  recog- 


12         John  Ayscough'' s  Letters  to  his  Mother 

nise  between  us  that  it  is  at  Havre  I  have  been  since 
Thursday:  or  rather  we  arrived  here,  and  our  camp  has 
been  at  Bleville,  outside  it. 

/  was  not  supposed  to  tell  you;  but  I  thought  the 
postcards  would;  so,  as  you  know,  we  may  allude  to  it. 
The  shops  and  houses  are  excellent  here,  but  there  is 
nothing  interesting  to  see.     Still  it  is  a  gay,  pleasant  town. 

I  have  bought  several  things:  (i)  a  much  larger  water- 
proof sheet,  (2)  a  sort  of  goloshes  or  gum-boots,  (3)  washing- 
basin,  (4)  collapsible  bath,  (5)  little  haversack  to  carry 
a  clean  shirt,  socks,  sponge,  soap,  tooth-brush,  etc. 

I  wrote  to  you  yesterday  morning  while  it  was  pour- 
ing rain:  but  it  only  lasted  half  an  hour,  and  has  been 
ever  so  line  (and  hot)  ever  since.  I  came  in  to  Havre 
about  twelve,  and  my  Anglican  confrere  begged  to  come 
with  me.  I  much  prefer  being  alone,  for,  though  he  is 
a  giant  with  legs  a  mile  in  length,  he  shambles  along  at 
the  rate  of  half  a  mile  an  hour  and  tires  me  to  death. 
He  is  very  amiable,  but  looks  and  talks  like  an  enormous 
Fourth  Form  boy. 

We  had  lunch  in  here,  and  ate  too  much! 

About  tea-time  we  waddled  home,  at  least  we  trammed 
most  of  the  way,  and  had  only  to  walk  the  last  mile  — 
to  Bleville,  where  our  camp  is. 

As  we  passed  a  rather  smart  house  with  a  big  garden 
a  little  girl  and  boy  dashed  out  with  rum  and  water! 
They  said  their  Mama  wished  them  to  refresh  thus  the 
poor  tired  English  soldiers.  The  French  are  in  love 
with  our  soldiers'  collar  and  shoulder  badges  and  wheedle 
them  out  of  the  men:  so  that  half  the  people  you  see 
have  20  H  (20th  Hussars)  R.  F.  A.  (Royal  Field  Artillery) 
etc.,  worn  as  brooches,  on  the  lapels  of  their  coats. 

We  sat  and  talked  in  the  dark  outside  our  tents  till 
late  last  night,  then  went  to  our  rugs  (no  one  has  a  bed) : 
and  I  slept  the  sleep  of  the  just. 

This  morning  I  found  a  church.  I  stayed  a  long  time 
praying  there  for  you;  but  every  where  I  am  doing  that. 


John  AyscougVs  Letters  to  his  Mother         13 

We  struck  camp  at  one  o'clock  and  late  this  afternoon 
entrain  for  Amiens,  where  perhaps  I  shall  find  letters. 
After  that  I  don't  know  where  we  go,  or  when  we  move. 
If  I  find  it  likely  that  we  are  to  stop  some  days  in  Amiens 
I  shall  send  you  a  wire  saying,  "Write  here  Poste  Restante, 
Monsignor  Bickerstaffe"  only. 

Oh  dear,  I  hope  you  are  doing  well.  It  is  so  trying 
never  hearing  anything:  but  it  is  all  part  of  the  one 
great  nuisance.  I  enjoy  all  this  in  a  way,  but  would 
give  one  ear  for  the  war  to  be  over,  and  for  me  to  be 
at  home. 

It  is  so  odd,  living  in  this  impenetrable  silence.  We 
see  French  newspapers,  but  not  one  of  us  has  heard  a 
word  from  his  home. 

By  writing  this  here,  and  posting  it  "on  my  own,"  I 
avoid  (I  hope)  the  military  censor.  He  only  approves 
of  a  word  or  two,  thus:    "I  am  well.     No  change.     X." 

If  I  wrote  "Active  Service"  on  my  letters  they  would 
go  for  nothing,  but  then  I  should  have  to  let  the  censor 
read  them. 

I  just  walked  in  here  out  of  the  street  and  asked  if  I 
might  write  a  letter  and  they  said  "Yes"  at  once. 

How  is  Christie,  how  are  the  Gaters?  Give  them  my 
love  and  thank  them  from  me  for  being  kind  to  you. 

15  Field  Ambulancey  Expeditionary  Force 

August  28,  1914 

I  WROTE  you  a  hasty  scribble  yesterday.  We  arrived 
here  yesterday  after  some  strenuous  days:  indeed  it  has 
all  been  pretty  stiff  since  Sunday  last.  I  cannot  say 
more  at  present,  but  I  shall  have  yarns  enough  to  spin 
when  I  get  home. 

We  arrived  at  the  town  near  this  about  noon,  and 
I  was  asked  to  go  and  forage  for  our  mess,  so  was  able 
to  get  some  food  (the  first  for  nearly  twenty  hours)  and 
to  see  the  fine  old  Cathedral. 


14         'John  Ayscouglo  s  Letters  to  his  Mother 

Then  I  got  out  here  to  camp,  and  we  saw  our  baggage 
(first  time  since  we  left  our  landing-place)  and  there 
was  a  fine  washing  and  changing  of  socks,  shirts,  etc. 
We  were  all  filthy! 

You  mustn't  grumble  if  the  chicken  or  cutlet  is  tough, 
but  say:    "What  would  not  Frank  give  for  it?" 

Till  yesterday  it  was  all  march,  march,  and  move, 
move.  It  is  a  lovely  part  of  France.  Here  rich  woods 
and  watermeadows;  everywhere  splendid  harvest-lands; 
in  parts  very  like  Salisbury  Plain:  if  you  can  find  Mon- 
taigne's Essays  (in  the  revolving  bookcase  in  the  study, 
I  think,  or  else  in  the  one  between  the  two  windows) 
you  will  see  at  the  beginning  a  picture  of  his  birthplace  — 
there  is  a  house  like  it  in  every  village  here.  The  country 
is  a  picture  of  peace,  with  "War"  over-printed  on  it. 
I  have  seen  some  lovely  wild-flowers,  new  to  me  and 
perhaps  rare,  but  have  never  been  able  to  stop  and  pick 
them.  Here  in  this  field  wild  colchicum  grows  —  a  lovely 
mauve  crocus  with  no  leaf  yet.  I  have  picked  some,  and 
will  try  and  dry  it  for  you.  The  people  are  so  splendid 
to  our  men;  in  every  village  (and  we  have  marched 
through  dozens)  they  run  out  and  give  coflFee,  fruit, 
bread,  bread  and  jam,  water,  and  so  on.   .  .  . 

I  cannot  tell  you  in  a  letter  what  our  life  is  like.  In 
some  ways  it  is  simply  like  a  titanic  picnic,  with  a  huge 
country  for  its  scene,  an  army  for  its  guests.  We  are  all 
well,  and  we  have  had  supreme  weather  (except  for  about 
thirty  hours  of  drenching  misery).  We  have  never  entered 
a  tent  for  ten  days;  one  eats,  sleeps,  does  everything, 
in  the  open  air  on  the  open  ground,  without  tent,  chair, 
table,  bed,  anything.  We  hardly  get  our  night  through, 
but  in  the  black  dark  have  to  get  up,  scramble  our  things 
together  as  we  can,  and  be  off  to  some  new  encampment. 

The  night  dews  would  amaze  you:  all  that  is  outside 
one's  waterproof  sheet  is  drenched,  and  has  to  be  rolled 
up  drenched.     But  no  one  has  had  a  cold. 

I    am   very   comfortable   in   my   "bed,"   i.e.   the   rugs 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother         15 

you  saw,  and  sleep  splendidly:  all  I  dislike  is  getting  up. 
Yesterday  we  had  a  hot  dinner — fried  ham  and  eggs: 
our  first  for  days.  Our  food  is  generally  bread,  butter, 
jam,  potted  meat,  tinned  salmon,  and  of  course  we  have 
no  meal-times:  sometimes  two  or  three  eatings  in  a  day, 
and  often  only  one  in  twenty-four  hours. 

Sometimes  our  camp  is  in  a  cornfield,  and  then  we  put 
sheaves  under  our  rugs  and  are  very  comfortable;  only 
the  harvest  bugs  devour  one. 

Yesterday  was  the  first  of  September  and  I  actually 
saw  a  covey  of  partridges  —  it  seemed  so  English,  it 
gave  me  a  lump  in  my  throat. 

A  German  officer  taken  prisoner  yesterday  said  that 
their  men  had  had  nothing  to  eat  for  four  days,  and  had 
to  be  driven  to  fight  at  the  point  of  the  bayonet. 

On  Sunday  we  were  at  a  village  called  Coutroy  and 
I  had  service  for  my  men  in  the  church.  The  priest  had 
gone  off  to  the  war. 

On  Monday  we  passed  close  to  Pierrefonds,  a  splendid 
chateau  given  by  Napoleon  III  to  the  Empress  Eugenie 
—  I  remember  so  well  a  picture  of  it  she  has  at  Farn- 
borough.  It  is  enormous,  and  gloriously  placed  amid 
vast  forests.  I  enclose  two  cards  of  it,  all  crumpled, 
which  I  can't  help.  They  have  been  two  days  in  my 
pocket;  one  has  nowhere  but  one's  pocket  to  put  any- 
thing. 

15  Field  Ambulance^  Expeditionary  Force 

September  2,  1914 

I  AM  going  to  try  to  get  a  letter  ready  to  post  whenever 
any  chance  arrives.  It  is  Wednesday  afternoon,  and  we 
are  having  a  rest,  perhaps  until  to-morrow  morning, 
and  so  I  can  write.  But  there  is  nothing  but  the  ground 
to  write  on,  and  I  can't  manage  it  very  well. 

We  are  encamped  at  a  village  called  Montge,  only 
about  twenty-four  miles  from  Paris.    It  is  blazing  weather. 


1 6         John  Ayscough^s  Letters  to  his  Mother 

but  cool  in  my  corner  of  the  camp  under  the  shade  of 
some  little  trees,  for  there  is  a  sweet  breeze,  smelling  of 
harvest. 

You,  with  your  papers,  know  much  more  about  the  war 
than  we  do.  We  move  and  move  and  move,  always 
swallowed  up  in  a  cloud  of  mystery  and  ignorance,  of 
which  the  column  of  hot  dust  that  moves  with  us  is  a 
type.  All  I  can  tell  you  is  this  — ^  we  have  been  in  Belgium 
—  rushed  thither  at  once:  got  on  the  fighting  line,  and 
ever  since  have  been  engaged  in  a  "strategic  retirement," 
always  moving,  moving  back  on  Paris:  never  far  from 
the  fighting,  hearing  it,  and  never  seeing  it. 

I  cannot  tell  you  how  lovely,  how  rich,  how  opulent 
the  leagues  and  leagues  of  land  have  been  through  which 
we  have  been  ceaselessly  moving:  villages  whose  very 
name  should  be  "Peace";  endless,  endless  cornlands,  with 
the  generous  harvest  all  standing  ready  in  sheaf  to  be 
carried  (and  never  to  be  carried,  because  a  man's  wicked 
cruelty  shall  waste  all  that  God's  generous  providence 
and  poor  folks'  peaceful  labours  have  drawn  out  of  the 
willing  earth). 

Such  farms,  such  store-places  .  .  .  everywhere  the 
evidence  of  a  people  living  in  frugal  plenty  on  the  fruit 
of  their  steady,  contented  toil  .  .  .  and  everywhere 
flight,  and  abandoning  of  all  to  the  mercy  of  the  bar- 
barian Teutons  who  know  no  mercy.  The  lands  are  the 
richest,  the  loveliest  I  ever  saw;  and  everywhere  one 
knows  that  the  unequalled  harvest  will  never  be  gathered 
in.     Oh,  my  God,  what  war  is! 

It  is  only  at  rare  intervals  that  one  can  post  anything. 

We  got  in  here  to-day  quite  early  (having  been  roused 
from  our  beds  at  two  o'clock  in  the  morning,  in  pitch- 
dark,  to  come  here)  and  have  been  washing,  shaving,  etc. 

The  worst  of  these  packings  up  in  black  darkness  is 
that  one  always  loses  something.  This  time  it  was  my 
clothes-brush,  another  time  it  was  my  big  waterproof 
sheet  only  bought  at  Havre:    and  so  on. 


John  Ayscougljs  Letters  to  his  Mother         17 

Please  don't  turn  up  your  nose  at  rather  elderly  chicken! 
Chicken!  We  no  more  expect  to  see  roast  meat  of  any 
sort  than  we  expect  to  be  offered  the  throne  of  Germany, 

And  soup!  or  "sweets":  nothing  of  that  sort  till  the 
war  is  over  for  us.  Perhaps  we  shall  be  in  Paris  soon  .  .  , 
but  we  haven't  the  least  idea. 

I  haven't  had  one  letter  from  you,  except  the  one  sent 
to  Phoenix  Park;  I  don't  know  whether  some  day  I  shall 
get  a  great  pile  of  letters,  or  whether  they  are  all  lost  .  .  . 
we  know  the  Germans  got  two  bags  full.  Miles  of  coun- 
try I  have  seen  are  just  like  Salisbury  Plain:  but  in  this 
part  the  wide  cornlands  are  striped  with  forest. 

I  must  stop  ...  I  want  to  sleep.  I  hope  to  be  able 
to  post  this;    but  when  I  don't  know. 

The  flowers  I  send  are  a  field  campanula  and  a  field 
aquilegia. 

Please  send  me  two  stocks:  the  best  you  can  find  in  the 
left-hand  top  drawer  in  my  dressing-table.     Don't  make 
one  on  purpose,   as  they  only  get  knocked   about  here, 
but  the  dew  has  spoiled  the  one  I  have. 

Please  don't  make  one;  as  it  is  such  a  chance  if  I  ever 
receive  it. 

1 5  Field  Amhulancey  Expeditionary  Force 

Friday 

It  is  Friday,  September  4th,  and  I  have  just  got  two 
big  envelopes,  forwarding  letters,  addressed  in  Christie's 
writing;  these  contained  two  letters  from  you,  the  first 
I  have  received.  One  told  me  of  your  having  Bert  to 
sleep  in  Joe's  room,  a  very  good  plan,  I  think. 

I  am  so  glad  to  hear  you  are  well,  and  earnestly  hope 
you  may  keep  well,  and  cheerful  too. 

The  weather  has  been  quite  glorious  ever  since  I  left, 
except  on  one  day  and  a  half:  and  I  have  been,  and  am, 
in  excellent  health.  You  know  I  dislike  heat,  and  the 
heat  has  been  amazing  throughout;   but  I  must  say  when 


1 8         'Joh7i  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

one  is  out  in  the  field  day  and  night,  for  week  after  week, 
it  is  a  mercy  to  have  it  fine. 

We  originally  landed  at  Havre  and  then  trained  to 
Valenciennes,  whence  we  marched  to  the  Belgian  frontier 
and  over  it.  Since  then  we  have  marched  daily  and  are 
now  within  twenty-five  miles  of  Paris. 

All  details  you  must  wait  for  till  I  am  back. 

I  got  a  lot  of  stuff  washed  the  day  before  yesterday; 
but  we  had  to  go  off  before  it  was  dry,  and  I  had  to  roll 
it  all  up  wet  as  it  was.     To-day  I  am  drying  it. 

I  hate  the  idea  of  sleeping  indoors  now:  and  I  never 
feel  cold,  though  we  have  thick  white  fogs,  breast  high,  at 
night,  and  then  fierce  heat  every  day. 

I  am  writing  this  while  waiting  to  march;  excuse  its 
brevity  and  its  stationery. 

Saturday,  September  5,  1914 

I  WROTE  the  letter  accompanying  this  yesterday, 
but  could  not  get  it  posted.  Nor  do  I  know  when  I  shall 
be  able  to  post  this;  it  is  only  by  a  rare  chance  we  run 
across  a  "field  post  office,"  and  all  the  civil  post  offices 
are  shut. 

This  day  week  I  wrote  a  number  of  letters  —  to  you, 
Christie,  Mrs.  Gater,  Miss  Gater,  my  London  agent. 
Sir  Charles  McGrigor,  etc.,  etc.,  and  the  one  to  you 
enclosed  cheques.  I  sent  them  to  a  field  post  office  for 
dispatch,  and  now  I  hear  that  all  letters  posted  closed 
are  torn  up!  Isn't  it  maddening  —  if  it  be  true.^  How 
can  I  write  business-letters  enclosing  cheques,  etc., 
and  leave  them  open  ? 

We  had  a  tiresome  day  yesterday.  The  idea  was,  it 
was  to  be  a  "rest  day"  and  fellows  had  washed  their 
clothes,  etc.  Then  at  about  8.30  a.m.  we  had  word  to 
hold  ourselves  in  readiness  to  start,  so  everything  was 
packed  in  five  minutes,  and  we  stood  about  waiting 
till    II    P.M.  —  fifteen   hours!  —  before   the   actual   order 


John  Ayscough*s  Letters  to  his  Mother         19 

to  move  came.  And  we  were  on  the  march  all  night, 
from  II  P.M.  to  7.30  this  morning. 

A  lovely  march  mostly,  through  forest,  but  I  was  too 
tired  and  cold  to  be  enthusiastic. 

We  are  billeted  here  in  the  grounds  of  a  chateau,  very 
like  Palluau,  only  larger,  and  with  finer  country  round 
it.  It  belongs  to  a  Monsieur  Boquet  who  knows  Count 
Clary  well.     The  latter  often  comes  here. 

Such  lovely  trees  and  flowers. 

[_Visiting  Card'] 

Monday,  September  7,  1914 

No  paper  or  postcards  available:  am  trying  this, 
hoping  it  will  reach  you. 

Am  excellently  well,  and  hope  you  are.  The  weather 
splendid.  Altogether  flourishing.  Had  a  long  talk  with 
Capt.  Newland  on  Saturday:  and  saw  several  Tidworth- 
ians  yesterday.     Lordly  forest-country  all  yesterday. 

15  Field  Ambulance,  Expeditionary  Force 

September  8,  191 4 

I  AM  gradually  losing  all  of  the  very  little  I  have! 
and  now  I  have  lost  my  fountain-pen,  and  must  write  in 
future  in  pencil  —  when  I  can  borrow  one. 

One  can  buy  nothing;  the  few  shops  one  comes  across 
are  closed;  we  so  often  arrive  after  dark  at  our  night's 
stopping-place,  and  so  often  leave  again  in  the  dark,  that 
it  is  only  too  easy  to  lose  things. 

I  have  been  bitten  from  head  to  foot  by  harvest-bugs, 
and  have  been  as  miserable  as  if  I  had  measles.  So 
have  most  of  us;  it  is  from  sleeping  on  the  corn-sheaves 
or  on  the  stubble.  One's  whole  body  looks  like  a  plum- 
pudding,  and  the  great  heat  makes  the  irritation  worse. 
It  is  so  odd  knowing  nothing  of  the  outside  world.  I 
have   not   seen    an    English    paper   since   leaving   home, 


20         John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

nor  a  French  one  for  a  fortnight.  We  know  nothing  but 
the  rumours  of  our  own  Division.  Is  there  a  new  Pope, 
I  wonder,  and  if  so  who  is  he?  What  are  the  Russians 
doing .? 

The  other  scrap  was  written  yesterday;  but  I  had  no 
envelope,  and  no  chance  of  posting  it.  I  am  posting 
this  open  and  hope  you  will  receive  it  safe  some  day. 
To-day  is  Our  Lady's  Birthday  ...  by  the  time  my 
other  Mother's  birthday  arrives  I  trust  I  shall  be  with 
her  at  home.     Pray  for  that,  and  for  the  end  of  the  War. 

The  forest  we  marched  through  all  Sunday  was  full  of 
lilies  of  the  valley,  though  long  finished  blooming,  of 
course. 

The  lilac  colchicum  one  sees  everywhere  is  lovely. 

Will  you  please  write  a  note  to  P.  H.  Prideaux,  Esq., 
King  Edward  VI's  School,  Lichfield,  and  tell  him  I  am  at 
the  front  and  cannot  write  anything  for  the  School 
Magazine  till  I  get  back. 

15  Field  Ambulance y  Expeditionary  Force 

September  9,  1914 

You  must  not  think  from  this  paper  that  I  am  a 
prisoner  in  the  hands  of  the  Germans. 

For  several  days  we  have  been  pursuing  them,  and 
this  sheet  of  paper  is  the  first  German  trophy  picked  up 
by  me  yesterday.  I  began  writing,  during  a  halt,  on  a 
baggage  waggon  and  I  am  trying  to  finish  on  the  ground, 
during  a  mid-day  pause  for  rest:  it  is  very  hard  to  write 
with  only  a  stubble-field  for  writing-desk.  I  have  just 
had  an  excellent  dinner  of  bacon  and  tomatoes,  and  am 
very  comfortable,  under  the  shade  of  a  corn-rick  in  a 
flat  field  on  the  top  of  a  hill,  with  an  exquisite  wooded 
valley  skirting  it,  and  a  broad  quiet  river  winding  round 
under  the  hill.  The  woods  are  intensely  green,  but  a 
haze  of  atmosphere  hangs  over  them. 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother         ii 

We  have  now  been  through  lots  of  villages  and  towns 
occupied  till  within  a  few  hours  of  our  arrival  by  the 
enemy.  You  have  no  idea  of  the  horrible  state  to  which 
they  reduce  every  place  they  occupy. 

Last  night  I  was  out  till  about  11.30,  searching  for 
wounded  and  we  were  all  up  again  at  4  a.m.  We  found 
some  English,  and  some  German,  wounded:  the  latter 
don't  bear  their  pains  half  so  well  as  our  men. 

All  yesterday  the  dust  on  the  line  of  march  was  amaz- 
ing, but  a  heavy  shower,  the  first  for  a  fortnight,  laid  it  a 
little. 

I  called  on  the  cure  of  a  little  town  where  we  rested 
for  half  an  hour  yesterday:  a  very  friendly  and  nice  old 
man  with  a  queer  old  housekeeper.  The  whole  town  had 
been  eaten  up  and  turned  out  of  doors  by  the  Germans, 
who  had  stayed  four  days:  they  gave  me  a  glass  of  cider 
and  wanted  to  give  dinner;  but  I  doubt  if  they  had 
much  to  eat  themselves.     They  were  so  nice  and  simple. 

The  only  thing  I  dislike  is  being  able  to  wash  so  little 
and  so  seldom.  To-day  not  at  all.  Yesterday  I  bor- 
rowed the  pint  of  water  another  fellow  had  washed  in 
and  washed  in  it  as  well  as  I  could. 

But  there  are  no  hardships,  only  inconveniences,  and 
our  health  is  first-rate.  Not  one  case  of  sickness  among 
us.  The  open-air  life  keeps  one  well.  When  I  come 
home  you  will  see  me  retiring  with  my  bedroom  candle- 
stick to  the  lawn  or  the  field!  But  a  room  is  certainly 
convenient  to  wash  in,  or  write  letters  in. 

No  post  for  days:  I  wonder  where  all  one's  letters  go 
to! 

I  must  stop  and  go  to  sleep. 

15  Field  Ambulance,  Expeditionary  Force 

September  13,  191 4 

I  AM  trying  to  begin  a  letter,  but  do  not  know  if  I 
shall  soon  have  an  opportunity  of  finishing  it.     I  am  iri 


22         John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

a  waggon,  not  on  the  box,  and  we  have  come  to  a  halt: 
such  halts  last  five  hours  sometimes  and  sometimes  five 
minutes.  Of  course  when  the  waggon  is  moving  no  one 
could  write  in  it,  the  jolting  is  terrific.  My  desk  is  the 
bottom  of  my  washing-bowl  turned  upside-down.  We 
were  roused  about  three  this  morning  and  have  been 
marching  ever  since  —  it  is  now  about  eight  o'clock  and 
you  have  just  had  your  early  tea  —  and  we  shall  go 
on  all  day. 

Monday,  7.30  a.m. 

I  COULD  not  get  on  with  my  letter  yesterday;  I  was 
too  unwell  with  one  of  my  appalling  goes  of  neuralgia, 
shivering,  etc.  I  tried  to  write  to  you  and  had  to  give  it 
up:  tried  to  read  an  old  newspaper  a  fellow  had  given 
me,  and  had  to  give  that  up,  too. 

A  young  doctor,  called  McCurry,  and  generally  nick- 
named McChutney,  came  and  attended  to  me,  and  was 
most  awfully  kind.  For  the  time  I  really  felt  horriby 
ill,  but  it  only  lasted  a  few  hours,  and  by  the  afternoon 
I  was  quite  well.  He  packed  me  up  on  a  stretcher  in  an 
ambulance  with  blankets,  bottles  full  of  hot  water,  etc., 
gave  me  phenacetin  and  morphia,  and  at  last  I  fell  asleep. 

About  three  o'clock  I  awoke,  shaved,  washed  (having 
a  waggon  all  to  myself  for  dressing-room)  and  was  packing 
up  my  things  when  the  order  was  given  to  move  camp 
at  once.  (By  the  way,  I  began  this  en  route;  while  I 
was  ill  the  march  ended,  and  we  were  camped  when  I 
awoke.)  A  cook  carrying  a  vegetable  marrow  had  had 
it  pierced  with  shrapnel. 

All  yesterday  (Sunday)  there  was  a  fierce  battle  between 
our  advanced  guard  and  the  German  rear  guard. 

Our  lovely  weather  has  ceased  and  we  have  rain  every 
day  now.  Last  night  I  had  a  delightful  sleeping-place 
in  a  hole  some  one  had  pierced  out  of  the  side  of  a  corn- 
rick.     It  was  on  the  sheltered  side  and  no  rain  came  in. 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother         23 

The  night  before  we  slept  in  a  house,  the  first  I  had 
entered  for  nearly  a  month:  it  was  a  small  cottage,  but 
the  people  nice,  and  the  upstairs  part  of  the  house  quite 
clean;  we  had  two  mattresses  on  the  floor  (seven  of  us!). 
At  three  o'clock  we  had  to  get  up  and  be  off'.  I  walked 
all  day  on  Saturday  and  as  it  rained  and  the  road  was 
churned  into  mud  (.  .  .  men  with  their  horses,  carts, 
etc.,  do  put  a  road  in  a  mess),  I  got  into  an  amazing 
pickle,  all  mud.  Sir  Horace  Smith-Dorrien  came  by  in 
his  motor,  warm  and  dry  (a  shut  motor),  and  Capt.  Bowly 
with  him:  they  pointed  me  out  to  each  other  and  waved, 
and  seemed  edified  at  my  campaigning  powers! 

What  makes  the  marches  tedious  is  the  long  halts:  on 
Saturday  there  was  a  big  battle  all  day:  and  the  halts 
were  spent  watching  it  —  one  doesn't  really  see  much 
of  an  artillery  battle.  What  you  see  is  a  ridge  beyond 
which  is  a  valley,  then  another  ridge,  and  between  the 
two  a  ceaseless  exchange  of  shells  and  shrapnel. 

It  is  much  more  interesting  to  see  an  aeroplane  being 
shelled.  I  saw  one  the  other  day  round  which  eleven 
shrapnel  shells  burst  in  much  less  than  eleven  minutes: 
it  was  hit  five  times  but  not  brought  down.  The  churches 
in  the  villages  are  all  old  in  this  part  of  France,  and  very 
nice;  good  architecture;  but  they  are  all  very  poor  — 
everything  confiscated  at  the  separation  of  Church  and 
State,  and  no  money  to  buy  anything  but  the  cheapest 
and  most  necessary  things. 

In  many  of  the  villages  are  delightful  old  huge  farms 
and  homesteads,  once  abbeys,  Cistercian  or  otherwise. 
This  house  was  one,  and  the  lovely  old  chapel  is  in  the 
farmyard  among  the  manure!  We  are  only  sheltering 
here,  during  a  halt  from  the  rain.  I  seize  the  opportunity 
to  write  at  a  table  in  the  scullery,  where  the  farm-girls 
are  washing  dishes. 

I  can  only  repeat  again  and  again  —  don't  be  anxious 
if  you  get  no  news:  the  ordinary  posts  do  not  work,  and 
it  is  only  at  rare  intervals  we  come  across  a  field  post. 


24         John  Ayscough^s  Letters  to  his  Mother 

I  have  received  no  letter  from  you  or  any  forwarded 
letters  since  August  28th  when  I  received  your  letter  of 
August  20th.  The  field  post  arrangements  must  be  very 
odd.  ...  I  feel  sure  you  have  written  often.  Any  parcel 
you  send  need  only  have  English  parcel-post  rate  of 
stamps  on  it.  I  do  long  to  hear  you  are  well  and  flourish- 
ing. 

This  paper  has  been  for  days  in  my  pocket,  that  is 
why  it  is  so  dirty. 

My  dear,  I  hope  you  are  well  and  happy.  If  that  be 
so  I  am  quite  content,  though  I  do  long  to  be  at  home. 
I  hope  poor  Christie  is  well.  I  wonder  if  Alice  would 
come  over  and  see  her  from  Saturday  to  Monday  or 
longer?     Write  and  ask  her.   .  .  . 

It  is  maddening  hearing  nothing:  I  have  no  means  of 
knowing  how  you  are  managing. 

September  14,  1914 

I  WROTE  you  a  long  letter  an  hour  ago,  but  as  we  are 
still  hanging  about  this  farm  and  I  have  a  table  to  write 
at  and  a  pen  and  ink  to  write  with,  I  will  add  a  sort  of 
postscript  under  another  cover,  especially  as  there  is  an 
officer  of  the  field  post  writing  at  the  same  table  who 
will  see  that  this  letter,  at  all  events,  gets  off.  And  so 
(as  I  feel  sure  this  will  reach  you)  I  just  repeat  that  I  am 
perfectly  safe  and  sound  —  and  quite  well,  though  yester- 
day I  had  a  perfectly  horrible  attack  of  neuralgia  and  a 
bad  chill.  If  you  read  accounts  in  the  newspapers  of 
such  and  such  an  Ambulance  suffering  loss,  never  be 
anxious,  but  be  sure  that  the  War  Office  would  inform 
you  direct  and  at  once  if  there  were  really  any  casualty. 
For  instance  No.  14  Field  Ambulance,  our  neighbour  in 
the  field,  was  reported  "wiped  out"  in  some  English 
papers:  whereas  it  has  not  lost  a  single  soul. 

I  should  love  to  have  a  painting  of  this  huge  farm  — 
once  a  Preceptory  of  Knights  Templars.     Another  farm 


John  Ays  cough's  Letters  to  his  Mother         25 

I  was  at  on  the  march  here,  on  Saturday,  was  a  Cistercian 
Abbey  —  at  a  charming  village  called  St.  Remy. 

I  will  now  try  and  give  you  roughly  some  idea  of  our 
movements: 

August  15th  I  left  home. 
"  16  arrived  at  Dublin. 

**  18  embarked  at  DubUn, 

"  20  arrived  at  Havre. 

"         22  left  Havre  by  train. 
"         23  arrived  at  Valenciennes. 
"  23  left  train  and  marched  to  Jenlain. 

24  marched   from  Jenlain  to  La   Bosiere  near 
Dour    (Belgium).     {Battle).     Marched   to 
Villaspol. 
"         25  from  Villaspol  to  Troinvilles  near  Le  Cateau. 
"         26  big  battle.     Marched  to  St.  Quentin. 
and  so  on  day  after  day  in  retreat  on  Paris,  till  we  ceased 
retreating  at  Montge,  east  of  Paris.     Since  then  we  have 
been  advancing.     Having  lured  the  Germans  all  this  way 
we  turn  about  and  force  them  north.     There  is  a  battle 
every  day,   but   almost  entirely  an  artillery  battle,   and 
so  we   have  much    fewer  wounded.     All   yesterday  the 
battle  was  furious,  and  yet  we  got  only  a  few  wounded 
or  killed. 

I  have  one  or  two  trophies,  bayonets,  etc.,  thrown 
away  by  fleeing  Germans. 

September  14,  191 4 

This  morning  I  wrote  you  two  letters  and  said  I  had 
not  heard  from  you  since  August  28th. 

Now  half  a  dozen  mails  have  arrived  together  and  I 
must  let  you  know  I  have  heard. 

You  were  well  when  you  wrote  and  (I  think)  in  good, 
contented  spirits. 

The  Gaters  seem  to  have  been  most  kind  and  neigh- 
bourly, and  I  am  truly  grateful  to  them:    and  I  am  de- 


26         John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

lighted  to  hear  how  good  Bert  is  —  as  I  thought  he 
would  be. 

I  heard  also  from  Winifred  G.  and  she  says  our  garden 
looks  lovely.  I'm  glad  you  like  Father  Cashman;  he 
is  a  good  little  thing  and  I  am  very  fond  of  him. 

Mind  if  you  want  any  money  you  write  to  Sir  C. 
McGrigor.  As  to  letters  it  makes  no  difference  whether 
you  send  them  to  him,  to  the  War  Office,  or  simply  to 
the  G.  P.  O.,  so  long  as  you  put  on  them  my  name  and 
15  Field  Ambulance,  Vth  Division,  Expeditionary  Force. 

Winifred  G.  says  you  did  not  receive  my  letters  from 
Havre  for  nearly  a  fortnight.  I  wonder  how  long  it  will 
be  before  you  receive  this.     You  might  risk  sending  me 

a  box  of  cigarettes :    postage  as  for  England,  Mrs.   P 

would  tell  you.  The  best  way  would  be  to  ask  her  to 
send  them  and  enter  it  all  in  my  book. 

I  do  think  it  good  and  sweet  of  Christie  staying  on  to 
look  after  you,  and  if  she  would  like  Alice  to  come  over 
to  see  her  I  hope  she  will  ask  her.  Why  not.f"  It  costs 
very  little,  and  Ver  ought  not  to  grudge  her  for  a  few 
days  —  if  it  were  only  Saturday  to  Monday  or  so.  But, 
of  course,  just  as  Christie  likes. 

I  have  seen  Sir  H.  Smith-Dorrien  two  or  three  times. 

15  Field  Ambulancey  Expeditionary  Force 

September  16,  19 14 

I  AM  almost  too  sleepy  to  write:  we  (four  out  of  the 
fourteen  of  us)  have  been  away  on  special  service,  and 
were  marching  —  really  marching  on  foot  —  all  last 
night,  and  all  the  night  before.  We  only  got  back  before 
lunch-time  to  the  Field  Ambulance,  and  after  lunch  I 
meant  to  sleep,  but  a  long  string  of  wounded  came  in, 
and  I  have  been  talking  to  the  poor  fellows.  Two  whole 
days  and  nights  without  sleep  or  rest  make  me  very 
drowsy  now,  so  excuse  a  dull  letter,  please. 

We  are  still  billeted  at  the  big  farm  that  was  a  Pre- 


^'john  Ays'cough' s  Letters  to  his  Mother         ly 

ceptory  of  Knights  Templars,  and  I  love  looking  at  the 
cows  and  sheep  in  their  huge  stone  Gothic  stables,  so 
airy,  light,  and  comfortable,  with  quantities  of  deep 
clean  straw.     They,  at  least,  seem  unconscious  of  war. 

We  had  very  wet  nights  to  march  in,  and  it  was  pitchy 
dark.     All  the  better  as  the  enemy  were  all  about. 

With  the  dawn  the  battle  begins  and  lasts  till  dark. 

Thursday,  September  lyth 

I  ONLY  got  SO  far,  and  sleep  overcame  me,  so  I  had  to 
give  it  up,  and  go  and  lie  down  for  an  hour  .  .  .  now  I 
will  go  on.  It  is  Thursday,  and  we  have  all  had  a  long 
night  in  bed  {i.e.,  in  our  blankets  and  rugs)  because 
we  are  stopping  on  here,  so  far  as  we  know,  and  not 
making  any  move  —  4  a.m.  is  our  regular  getting-up 
time,  and  to-day  we  did  not  get  up  till  7. 

On  Monday  night  we  got  an  order,  about  9  p.m.,  to 
send  off  six  ambulance-waggons  and  their  equipment  to  a 
place  nine  miles  from  here,  where  many  wounded  were 
expected.  I  was  not  supposed  to  go,  but  said  I  must; 
and  went  off.  We  arrived  just  at  dawn,  and  as  we 
arrived  the  battle  began.  We  were  under  fire  till  dark 
—  fifteen  hours,  and  it  was  very  stimulating  and  exciting. 
Not  one  casualty,  even  the  slightest,  happened  to  any  of 
our  officers,  men,  or  horses.  Considering  how  incessant 
and  fierce  the  fire  was,  the  casualties  even  among  the 
fighting  troops  were,  I  thought,  very  few. 

Our  field-hospital  was  installed  in  a  charming  small 
country  house  at  the  outskirts  of  the  village,  the  garden 
dehghtful,  sloping  to  water-meadows  beyond  which 
there  were  interlacing  ridges  of  wood. 

Our  hospital  flag  was  riddled  with  shrapnel,  and  lots 
of  it  fell  in  the  garden  and  in  the  lane  beside  us.  But  no 
one  got  any  harm  there;  our  wounded  were  brought  in 
safely. 

As  soon  as  it  was  dark  we  buried  our  little  group  of 


28         John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

dead,  only  eight,  three  officers,  just  beyond  the  trenches 
where  the  hving  men  were  lying  in  the  miserable  rain. 
A  most  poignant,  touching  sight,  the  funeral:  brief, 
bare,  simple,  and  almost  silent.  The  enemy  were  quite 
near,  listening  and  watching:  the  poor  grave  very  hasty 
and  shallow.  One  poor  lad  had  so  stiffened  he  had  to 
be  buried  as  he  lay,  and  he  had  his  arm  up  and  one  leg 
up  and  bent,  like  a  reel-dancer,  as  though  he  had  gone 
dancing  to  his  death.  The  lantern  light  just  showed 
them,  but  hardly  showed  they  were  dead:  and  of  course 
there  was  no  shroud  or  sheet;  each  was  as  he  fell, 
equipped,  accoutred. 

Then  we  had  to  be  off;  our  wounded  had  to  be  moved, 
and  only  in  the  dark  could  we  do  it.  It  was  all  very 
silent.  From  our  field-hospital  we  had  to  get  to  the 
waggons,  and  through  the  empty  streets  of  the  now 
ruined  village,  all  battered  by  shells  since  we  reached  it 
fifteen  hours  before,  we  had  to  creep  quietly  for  fear  of 
snipers,  of  whom  there  were  plenty  in  the  deserted  black 
window-holes  of  the  houses.  The  thick,  moonless,  rainy 
night  helped  us. 

Presently  the  enemy  began  casting  search-lights  over 
the  road  we  had  to  go:  but  by  God's  grace  never  did  the 
light  fall  on  any  open  stretch  of  road  while  we  were  on  it : 
it  only  fell  on  our  bit  when  we  happened  to  be  passing 
behind  high  screening  hedges. 

To  cross  the  river  we  had  to  wait  five  hours  in  a  long 
line  with  other  troops,  French  and  English,  to  get  over 
by  a  small  pontoon.  The  rain  was  pitiless;  the  mud 
and  slush  ankle-deep,  all  our  own  men  and  ourselves  and 
all  our  wounded  who  could  walk  had  to  walk:  and  we 
were  all  drenched,  whole  and  wounded.  We  did  not 
know  it  then,  but  the  enemy  had  shelled  the  bridge 
hardly  an  hour  before  we  arrived  there:  if  they  had 
done  it  while  a  mile-long  train  of  troops  were  waiting 
there  they  would  have  made  a  fine  mess. 

We  got  back  in  the  forenoon  of  yesterday,  and  have 


John  AyscougVs  Letters  to  his  Mother         29 

sent  our  wounded  on  to  the  base:  only  new  ones  have 
arrived.     It  had  got  fine  by  the  time  we  got  in. 

I  felt  very  stiff  and  cold  from  bemg  wet  so  many  hours, 
but  though  I  was  deadly  tired  I  had  determined  to  walk, 
and  that  prevented  my  taking  any  ill-effects.  I  have 
not  caught  cold,  much  less  pneumonia  or  bronchitis,  and 
though  I  woke  very  stiff  this  morning  even  that  has  gone 
off. 

Our  people  here  greeted  us  with  great  friendliness  and 
cordiality:  they  had  heard  we  were  in  a  tight  place  and 
hardly  knew  how  we  were  to  get  out  of  it,  or  whether  we 
had  been  wiped  out  ...  so  it  was  rather  a  triumph  for 
the  15th  Ambulance  that  we  had  brought  off  all  our 
wounded,  and  got  away  without  the  least  loss. 

I  must  confess  I  don't  think  you  would  have  liked 
fifteen  hours  of  being  under  violent  fire  from  shrapnel, 
lyddite,  melanite,  maxims  and  rifles:  but  I  really  did 
like  it.  It  was  far  more  exciting  than  any  game,  and  I 
would  not  have  missed  it  for  anything.  But  our  Com- 
manding Officer  says  he  shall  not  let  his  people  be  sent  to 
such  a  place  again.  Of  course  dead  doctors  are  not 
much  use,  and  a  place  in  the  very  bull's  eye  of  the  shelling 
is  not  the  best  for  conducting  critical  operations  on 
wounded  men. 

Many  thousands  of  shells  fell  in  the  course  of  the 
fifteen  hours :  very  many  quite  close  to  us,  as  for  example 
at  the  spots  marked. 

The  noise  all  day  was  amazing. 

15  Field  Ambulance y  Expeditionary  Force 

September  18,  1914 

I  AM  writing  you  this  short  note,  not  because  I  have 
anything  much  to  say,  as  I  wrote  you  and  Christie  a  long 
letter  each  yesterday,  but  simply  because  I  have  the 
opportunity,  and  may  not  have  another  for  ever  so  long. 

We  are  still   at   the  farm   that  was   a   Preceptory  of 


30         John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

Knights  Templars:  but  may  get  the  order  to  move  at 
any  moment. 

A  lot  of  wounded  came  in  this  morning,  but  we  were 
able  to  send  them  on  within  an  hour  or  two.  Meanwhile 
I  chatted  to  most  of  them  and  gave  Extreme  Unction  to 
a  dying  German  prisoner.  He  was  only  twenty-one,  a 
sad-faced,  simple  country  lad  from  Prussian  Poland, 
with  no  more  idea  why  he  should  be  killed  or  should  kill 
anyone  else,  than  a  sheep  or  a  cow.  He  was  horribly 
wounded  by  shell  fire  on  Sunday,  and  had  lain  out  in  the 
rain  ever  since,  till  our  people  found  him  in  the  woods 
last  night  (this  is  Thursday).  Isn't  it  horrible  to  picture.? 
starving,  drenched,  bleeding,  so  torn  and  shot  in  the 
buttock  as  to  be  unable  to  drag  himself  out  of  the  woods. 
So  his  wounds  had  gangrened,  and  he  must  die.  He 
could  only  lie  on  his  face:  he  was  fully  conscious  and 
joined  in  where  he  could  in  the  responses  of  the  office  of 
Extreme  Unction;  but  I  know  nothing  more  awful  than 
the  broken-hearted  patience  of  such  lads:  the  whole 
face,  the  dumb  eyes,  the  agonised  posture  —  without 
cry,  or  moan;  if  ever  anything  was  an  appeal  to  heaven 
from  a  brother's  blood,  crying  from  the  earth,  it  was  one. 

I  daresay  you  do  not  know  any  more  than  I  did  what  a 
Field  Ambulance  is  or  does.  Well,  its  great  function  is 
to  be  mobile,  able  to  move  always  with  the  fighting 
troops  and  be  at  hand  for  the  wounded  in  every  action. 
So  it  can  never  retain  the  wounded  it  treats:  if  it  did  it 
would  at  once  become  zVwmobile  (a  hospital  full  of  wounded 
men  cannot  rush  about)  and  its  troops  would  move  on 
and  leave  it,  and  they  would  have  no  ambulance  any 
more  in  attendance. 

Our  wounded,  therefore,  are  always  "evacuated" 
within  six  hours;  i.e.^  we  send  them  in  ambulances  to  the 
"rail-head"  (the  nearest  place  where  there  is  a  train 
running)  where  they  entrain  and  are  conveyed  first  to  a 
"clearing-hospital"  then  to  a  general  hospital,  or  perhaps 
direct  to  the  "base"  hospital,  whence  they  embark  for 
England. 


John  AyscougFs  Letters  to  his  Mother         31 

I  wonder  if  you  could  send  me  a  sort  of  sleeveless 
waistcoat,  either  knitted  or  made  of  flannel.  I  could  not 
bear  or  wear  one  with  sleeves,  but  I  might  manage  with 
only  a  large  open  arm-place  and  no  sleeves. 

Ask  the  Gaters  to  see  if  they  could  find  the  sort  of 
thing  in  Salisbury.  I  believe  they  are  made  in  "Jaeger" 
and  you  could  pay  for  it.  (I  believe  Sir  C.  McGrigor 
sent  you  the  £15  I  asked  him  to.)  It  is  possible  that 
Father  Wrafter,  S.J.,  of  Gardiner  Street,  Dublin,  would 
do  this  for  you  quite  as  well  as  the  Gaters;  if  you  would 
write  and  ask  him:  and  I  know  it  would  only  be  a  pleasure 
to  him. 

I  must  always  beg  you  not  to  be  anxious  if  a  long  time 
goes  by  without  word  of  me.  When  we  are  marching 
we  never  get  in  touch  with  the  field  post  offices,  and  all 
the  others  are  closed.  One  can  never  buy  anything, 
either:  all  shops  are  long  ago  closed:  and  indeed  most 
villages  and  towns  are  deserted. 

I'm  so  glad  you  saw  Mrs.  Profeit,  and  that  George 
came  to  see  you:  I  got  a  nice  letter  from  him  yesterday, 
and  also  a  very  nice  and  affectionate,  most  sympathetic, 
one  from  Benie. 

Now,  dear,  good-bye. 

God  bless  you  both,  and  keep  you  both  well,  cheerful 
and  prosperous. 

My  affectionate  messages  to  the  good  Gater  neighbours 
and  to  all  to  whom  you  write;  and  say,  every  time,  to 
Bert  and  Mary  and  old  Slade  that  I  am  truly  pleased  to 
hear  how  well  they  do  their  part  in  the  war.  I  am  really 
fond  of  Bert,  and  know  he  is  fond  of  us.  And  Mary  .  .  . 
is  sound  and  a  good,  trustworthy  girl. 

1 5  Field  Ambulance,  Expeditionary  Force 

Saturday  night,  September  19,  191 4 

Another  mail  arrived  to-night  and  brought  in  a 
letter  from  you,  dated  September  6th,  thirteen  days  ago, 
telling  of  George's  arrival  at  your  Manor  House. 


32         John  Ayscough^s  Letters  to  his  Mother 

I  am  so  glad  he  went  to  you  and  was  made  comfort- 
able, and  am  delighted  to  hear  how  old  Slade  played  up 
and  rose  to  the  emergency.  I  heard  something  to-day 
that  made  me  very  sad.  I  walked  down  to  the  Head- 
quarters of  our  Division,  and  saw  our  General,  Sir  Charles 
Fergusson,  who  was  most  amiable  and  civil.  His  A.  D.  C. 
is  young  Lord  Malise  Graham,  son  of  the  Duke  of  Mont- 
rose (or  Athole,  I  forget  which)  whom  I  had  met  before. 
He  is  a  very  nice  fellow  and  we  were  talking  together. 
I  asked  him  for  news  of  Percy  Wyndham,  and  he  said 
"He  has  been  killed."  I  asked  if  there  was  any  doubt 
about  it,  and  he  said,  "Unfortunately,  there  is  no  doubt." 
Poor,  dear  lad!  so  handsome,  so  full  of  life,  so  happily 
and  lately  married,  with  all  that  could  make  life  attrac- 
tive. However,  he  died  nobly  for  his  country,  and  in 
the  moment  of  victory. 

I  cannot  say  how  much  I  feel  for  dear  old  Mrs.  Percy 
Wyndham;  in  how  short  a  time  has  she  lost  her  beloved 
and  brilliant  husband,  her  eldest  son,  and  now  her  grand- 
son! This  lad  was  the  only  child  of  George  Wyndham 
and  Lady  Grosvenor. 

I  was  down  at  Headquarters  arranging  for  Mass  here 
to-morrow,  which  we  are  having  in  a  huge  barn:  probably 
the  first  time  Mass  has  ever  been  said  here  since  the 
Templars  were  cruelly  suppressed  five  hundred  years  ago. 

I  must  say  I  w^as  pleased  by  the  very  kind  reception  I 
had  at  Headquarters  from  the  whole  staff,  from  the 
General  downwards.  I  don't  wonder  the  delay  in  getting 
letters  tires  you:  but  we  must  be  patient  and  make  the 
best  of  it. 

We  have  got  English  papers  with  Sir  John  French's 
official  dispatch  detailing  all  the  actions,  including  Le 
Cateau,  Mons,  etc.,  into  the  thick  of  which  we  arrived. 
Very  interesting  reading  for  us:  but  you  have  read  it  all 
long  ago.  The  dispatch  contains  high  praise  of  Sir 
Horace  Smith-Dorrien,  which  specially  pleased  me,  as 
he  is  my  own  general  at  home. 


John  Ayscough^s  Letters  to  his  Mother         33 

I  love  to  hear  of  the  garden  and  how  nice  it  was  looking 
when  you  wrote.  I  hope  George  will  stay  on  with  you, 
and  cheer  you  with  his  fresh  young  presence:  he  is  a 
dear  boy  and  he  is  fond  of  us  all.  His  mother  and  grand- 
mother will  be  pleased  to  know  he  is  in  such  good  quarters. 

I  am  off  to  bed;   so  will  close  this. 

I  daresay  all  my  letters  will  not  reach  you:  those  I 
have  been  able  to  give  myself  to  one  of  the  censors  will 
no  doubt  get  through. 

15  Field  Ambulance,  Expeditionary  Force 

September  21,  19 14 

We  moved  into  this  farm  last  Monday,  and  now  it  is 
Monday  again  —  a  whole  week  in  one  place  and  never 
before  did  we  stay  two  nights  in  one  place.  Last  night 
I  slept  in  a  bed !  there's  glory  for  you.  Besides  ourselves, 
nine  officers  have  been  billeted  here,  and  they  have  a 
couple  of  excellent  bedrooms:  we  are  sleeping  on  the 
stone  floor  of  the  entrance  hall  —  first  come,  first  served, 
of  course.  Yesterday  they  moved  off  and  we  got  their 
rooms.  This  one  (I  am  writing  in  it)  is  large,  clean, 
airy,  and  prettily  papered,  and  the  beds  are  new,  clean, 
and  comfortable.  So,  having  nothing  else  to  do,  I  went 
to  bed  at  eight  last  night  and  had  ten  hours'  rest.  Can 
you  imagine  me  five  weeks  without  reading  anything? 
Yet  that  is  my  pHght.  For  five  weeks  I  have  had  nothing 
to  read. 

Yesterday  morning  we  had  Mass  in  one  of  the  immense 
Gothic  barns,  and  it  was  crammed;  some  tell  me  that 
there  were  a  thousand  men  present,  but  I  think  there 
were  over  six  hundred.  The  men  were  viost  devout  and 
full  of  piety,  attention  and  interest.  They  sat  on  the 
hay  while  I  preached  —  for  over  half  an  hour  —  and 
listened  with  all  their  eyes,  ears,  and  mouths.  An 
officer  said  afterwards,  "I  wished  you  would  go  on  for 
hours."     It  was   really  interesting  and  impressive;    the 


34         John  Ayscough^s  Letters  to  his  Mother 

great  dim  barn,  the  crowd  of  soldiers  crouched  in  the 
hay,  the  enemies'  guns  booming  three  miles  off,  and  the 
thought  that  once  again  (after  five  hundred  and  fifty 
years),  Mass  was  being  said  in  this  old  place  of  religion, 
built  by  warrior-monks,  by  a  foreign  priest  belonging  to 
a  foreign  army,  for  foreign  soldiers.  At  the  end  I  gave 
away  medals,  and  the  crushing  up  to  get  them  was 
funny.  "Here,"  I  heard  one  young  corporal  expostulate, 
"this  ain't  a  dance,  and  you  aren't  a  swell  tryin'  to  get 
an  'am  and  chicken."  It  was  a  loft-barn,  and  all  that 
huge  crowd  had  to  get  down  by  a  very  shaky  ladder! 
While  they  were  slowly  getting  olf,  some  officers  came 
and  talked  to  me  —  among  them  young  Bellingham, 
Lady  Bute's  brother,  son  of  an  old  friend  of  mine.  Sir 
Henry  BelHngham,  of  Castle  Bellingham  in  Co.  Louth: 
also  a  fiery-headed  Capt.  McAlister,  who  used  to  come 
to  see  me  about  his  marriage  last  time  we  were  in  Malta; 
once  he  lunched  with  us  (I  remember)  down  in  the  hall. 
He  inquired  with  unfeigned  interest  for  you,  remembering 
all  about  your  illness,  etc. 

The  Protestant  officers  were  all  impressed  by  our 
Mass  and  our  people:  it  struck  them  how  cheery  and 
chatty  the  men  were,  and  how  glad  to  get  to  Mass,  though 
having  to  walk  far  in  the  rain  and  mud. 

After  lunch  I  walked  off  and  gave  afternoon  services 
at  two  different  places,  preaching  at  each  to  most  eagerly 
attentive  listeners. 

I  wish  you  would  write  a  note  for  me  to  the  Reverend 
Mother,  Sacre  Coeur  Convent,  Roehampton,  S.W.,  asking 
if  she  could  send  me  some  medals  for  the  soldiers  —  I 
have  given  away  about  twelve  hundred  and  have  none 
left.  Medals,  small  crucifixes,  rosaries,  scapulars,  Agnus 
Deis  —  I  could  give  away  lots  of,  and  am  always  being 
asked  for  them.  If  you  would  give  the  Reverend  Mother 
my  address,  and  tell  her  I  asked  you  to  write,  I  feel  sure 
she  would  send  me  some.  So  would  the  Reverend 
Mother  Prioress,  New  Hall  Convent,  Colchester. 


John  Ayscough' s  Letters  to  his  Mother         35 

Would  you  ask  Mary  to  buy  me  three  more  pairs  of 
those  red  socks  I  bought  at  Hobdens:  she  knows  well 
what  they  are  like  and  they  only  cost  a  shilling  a  pair. 
The  colour  doesn't  much  matter,  but  red,  puce,  petunia, 
plum,  etc.  —  any  such  colour  would  do.  And  then 
would  you  send  them  to  me:  (English  rate  of  postage). 
Tell  Christie  not  to  waste  her  stamps.  She  forwarded 
three  letters  in  one  envelope  and  put  3d  on  it;  id  would 
have  done.  There  is  no  fear  at  all  of  my  being  charged 
excess  postage.  You  must  pay  for  the  socks  —  I  have 
no  account  there.  By  the  way  the  shop  is  called  Haskin, 
though  it  belongs  to  Hobdens. 

1 5  Field  Ambulance,  Expeditionary  Force 

September  22,  1914 

I  WONDER  whether  my  letters  ever  reach  you?  I  have 
written  plenty  —  written  pretty  well  daily  since  we  came 
to  an  anchor  here  yesterday  week:  but  all  sorts  of  tire- 
some rumours  reach  us  of  censors  tearing  up  all  letters 
too  long  for  them  to  take  the  trouble  of  reading,  etc. 

Did  you,  for  instance,  ever  get  a  letter  from  me  dated 
August  28th  or  29th,  and  containing  various  cheques 
for  wages,  etc.  ?  It  is  a  scandalous  shame  if  they  simply 
tear  up  such  letters  with  the  cheques  in  them  without 
saying  anything.  I  cannot  believe  it:  it  is  very  unlikely 
that  I  alone  of  the  British  forces  should  have  occasion 
to  send  cheques  home,  and  I  cannot  believe  that  all  such 
cheques  should  simply  be  destroyed  without  explanation 
to  the  senders. 

Meanwhile,  if  you  want  some  money  you  must  write 
to  Sir  Charles  McGrigor  and  ask  for  it.  If  you  send  him 
enclosed  slip  I  think  it  will  be  all  right. 

We  are  still  doing  nothing  but  sitting  still  at  this  farm, 
getting  our  hair  cut,  our  linen  washed,  etc.  A  certain 
number  of  wounded  come  in  every  day,  and  some  sick, 
especially  men  who  have  got  rheumatism  from  lying  in 


36         John  Ayscouglo  s  Letters  to  his  Mother 

the  trenches.  Very  few  of  these  are  CathoHcs,  and  none 
of  these  few  lately  have  been  very  serious  cases. 

I  am  ever  so  well,  eating  about  ten  times  what  I  ate  at 
home,  and  yet,  if  anything,  slighter,  certainly  no  more 
podgy.  It  was  fine  all  day  yesterday  and  the  day  before, 
and  will  be  so  to-day,  I  think;  but  unfortunately  it  rains 
every  night,  and  so  the  plague  of  mud  continues. 

I  always  hoped  to  get  back  in  time  to  keep  your  birth- 
day with  you  at  home;  that,  I  fear,  is  a  dream  from 
which  I  must  wake  up;  still,  everyone  says  the  war  must 
end  soon,  as  Germany  has  no  money  to  go  on  with,  and 
no  reserve  of  men  to  fill  up  the  huge  gaps. 

We  can  only  pray,  as  I  do  daily  and  all  day  long,  for 
Peace,  and  reunion. 

George,  in  his  letter,  spoke  of  his  pleasure  and  relief 
in  finding  you  cheerful  and  bright:  I  was  truly  grateful 
to  him  for  putting  it  in.  I  must  praise  you  as  I  am 
always  praising  Christie,  and  all  of  them:  them  for  their 
care  of  you,  and  you  for  doing  what  I  asked  —  my  last 
word  to  you  was,  "Keep  well  and  cheerful  till  I  come 
back." 

I  cannot  in  each  letter  repeat  the  messages  I  mean 
you  to  give  from  me.  But  whenever  you  see  the  Gaters 
say  how  much  I  feel  their  neighbourly  attentions  to  you, 
and  in  your  chats  with  Christie  say  how  fully  I  appreciate 
her  goodness  in  staying  away  from  her  beloved  Alice  to 
cheer  and  take  care  of  you.  .   .  . 

1 5  Field  Ambulance,  Expeditionary  Force 

Wednesday,  September  23,  1914 

Yesterday  I  went  for  a  walk,  almost  the  first.  .  .  . 
You  see  till  we  stopped  here  ten  days  ago  we  were  always 
on  the  move  and  tired  enough  without  extra  walking, 
and  even  here  we  are  not  supposed  to  wander  about: 
because  one  might  easily  walk  into  the  enemy's  lines,  or 
outposts,  or  be  rounded  up  by  their  Uhlans.     Therefore 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother         37 

we  never  go  out  without  leave,  and  are  not  supposed  to 
ask  for  it  often.  Yesterday  I  did  go,  and  enjoyed  it. 
First  we  (myself  and  a  young  officer  called  McCurry, 
nicknamed  McChutney)  went  down  to  the  village,  a  mile 
away,  where  the  Headquarters  of  this  Division  are. 
There  I  immediately  fell  in  with  Lord  Malise  Graham, 
and  we  had  a  talk  about  our  various  friends  in  the  war. 
.  .  .  He  is  a  very  nice  fellow,  young,  handsome,  serious^ 
with  a  fine  character  in  his  face. 

Then  I  went  and  said  my  prayers  in  the  village  church 
and  arranged  for  the  use  of  it,  if  I  want  it,  next  Sunday: 
the  priest  here  (as  is  the  case  in  ninety-nine  cases  out  of 
a  hundred)  has  gone  off  to  fight  for  his  country.  It  is  a 
beautiful  little  church,  at  least  eight  centuries  old,  I  should 
say. 

Then  we  walked  on  and  met  three  charming  French 
officers,  very  keen  about  Mass  next  Sunday,  with  whom 
we  stayed  chatting  for  nearly  an  hour.  McCurry  thought 
our  talk  very  briUiant!  ("Pass  the  jam"  is  about  the 
average  of  our  conversation  at  Mess  here.)  One  of  the 
Frenchmen  knows  the  Clarys  well. 

Next  we  met  General  Forestier-Walker:  I  don't  mean 
the  ghost  of  our  old  friend.  Sir  Frederick,  but  his  cousin 
who  was  at  SaHsbury,  and  whose  wife  was  Lady  Mary 
Liddell,  daughter  of  the  Lord  Ravensworth  whom  Athol 
Liddell  succeeded.  He  was  quite  gushing,  and  insisted 
on  driving  us  home  here  in  his  motor.  He  told  me  that 
General  Drummond  had  gone  home,  sufi^ering  from  a 
total  break-down.  You  know  he  was  given  command 
of  the  19th  Brigade.  Isn't  it  bad  for  him.^  I  am  sure 
he  will  be  dreadfully  cut  up  about  it.  You  see  in  an 
officer  of  his  rank  it  means  the  loss  of  such  a  chance  of 
distinction.  It  was  a  pleasant  change  or  outing  and  I 
enjoyed  it  very  much. 

I  heard  something  which  sounds  almost  too  good  to  be 
true. 

The  Commandant  told  me  yesterday  afternoon  that 


38         John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

he  knew  unofficially  my  name  had  been  recommended  to 
be  "mentioned  in  dispatches"  for  what  I  did  at  Missey. 
That  is  to  say  for  "distinguished"  or  "meritorious" 
conduct  during  the  fifteen  hours  we  were  under  heavy 
fire.  If  I  am  mentioned  in  dispatches  it  will  be  ripping. 
So  old  a  man  who  comes  a-soldiering  can  hardly  hope  for 
more  than  to  escape  being  called  behind-hand  and  lazy. 
Of  course  this  may  explain  the  wonderfully  respectful 
welcome  I  got  on  Saturday  from  the  Headquarters  Staff, 
which  struck  me  at  the  time. 

However,  though  I  may  have  been  recommended  for 
mention,  it  does  not  follow  I  shall  be  mentioned :  if  I  am 
I  daresay  the  Gaters  will  see  it  in  the  papers,  or  hear  it  in 
Salisbury  and  tell  you. 

A  soldier  servant  washed  out  some  linen  for  me  the 
day  before  yesterday,  and  brought  it  back  just  now. 
It  was  hlack,  whereas  it  wasn't  very  dirty  when  I  gave  it 
him  to  wash:   so  I  have  had  to  wash  it  all  over  again! 

Remember  your  letters  are  not  touched  by  the  censors, 
only  ours. 

September  24,  191 4 

This  will  be  a  very  short  letter;  but  I  have  just  received 
two  from  you  and  want  to  acknowledge  them. 

While  we  were  on  "trek"  we  never  came  near  a  field 
post  office  and  neither  got  letters  nor  received  them: 
now  we  get  a  mail  almost  every  day  and  can  post  letters 
every  day;  whether  they  will  ever  go  anywhere  or  get 
anywhere  is  quite  another  question. 

You  write  as  though  you  had  not  heard  anything  of 
me  for  ages  —  that  was  on  September  12th  (just  twelve 
days  ago),  but  I  hope  you  will  soon  have  a  regular  succes- 
sion of  letters.  Oddly  enough  two  of  your  letters  arrived 
together,  one  nearly  a  fortnight  older  than  the  other  — 
i.e.,  one  dated  September  ist,  and  the  other  September 
1 2th.     George  wrote  by  the  same  mail,  a  very  nice  letter, 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother         39 

indeed,  dated  September  nth.  His  letter  is  rather 
amusing  and  shows  he  has  an  observing  pair  of  eyes  in 
his  head. 

I  saw  Lord  Malise  Graham  again  yesterday  down  at 
Headquarters  and  gave  him  a  letter  to  you  to  post. 

Then  I  met  some  soldiers  who  asked  if  they  might  come 
up  here  to  confession,  so  I  said  /  would  go  to  them,  and 
fixed  last  night  at  the  village  church.  About  forty  came, 
and  to-day  I  got  up  in  the  dark  —  before  five  o'clock  — 
and  carried  all  the  things  for  Mass  down  there  in  my 
hand  and  said  Mass  for  them  and  gave  Holy  Communion. 

The  parish  priest  himself  is  away  fighting  for  France 
in  the  trenches,  like  thousands  and  thousands  of  others. 
It  is  a  lovely  old  church  —  very  old,  perhaps  eight  or  nine 
centuries. 

Now  I  am  going  to  rest.  God  bless  you,  and  may  He 
end  this  hateful  war. 


1 5  Field  Ambulance,  Expeditionary  Force 

Friday,  September  25,  1914 

I  HAVE  just  written  such  a  long  letter  to  the  Bishop 
that  I  will  merely  send  you  a  line  to  say  I  am  quite  well 
and  flourishing. 

I  received  enclosed  from  George  last  night:  isn't  it  a 
nice  letter.^  Please  keep  it.  I  should  like  to  keep  all 
the  letters  I  receive  during  the  war. 

We  have  now  got  back  to  fine  weather:  the  rain  all 
gone,  the  mud  dried  up,  and  we  have  bright  sun,  blue 
sky  and  cool  air:  much  nicer  than  the  blazing  drought 
that  came  before  the  rain. 

I  wish  I  could  draw,  like  you;  the  country  is  so  pretty, 
and  the  villages,  churches,  and  farms  are  most  picturesque. 
But  the  only  pictures  I  can  make  are  with  the  pen. 

Now  I  will  stop  —  I  said  this  was  to  be  only  a  mere 
line. 


40         John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

{Card~\ 

Friday^  September  25,  1914 

These  cards  are  supposed  to  be  extra-special  —  bound 
to  reach  you,  and  to  reach  you  soon.  I  am  so  sorry  you 
have  not  been  hearing:  I  have  written  tons  of  letters. 
I  assure  you  I  am  extremely  alive,  and  you  must  believe 
I  am  so  till  you  hear  officially  to  the  contrary  from  the 
War  Office.  I  had  a  charming  letter  from  George,  and 
am  so  glad  you  had  him  to  stay.  My  best  love  to  Christie, 
the  Gaters,  etc.  We  are  having  perfect  weather  now, 
which  adds  much  to  our  comfort. 

1 5  Field  Ambulance,  Expeditionary  Force 

September  26,  1914 

Last  evening  I  had  a  cheerful  letter  from  you  dated 
the  15th,  saying  you  had  received  mine  of  August  28th 
and  September  2d.  I  hope  that  now  you  will  be  receiving 
a  regular  succession  of  letters. 

Yesterday  I  walked  down  to  the  Divisional  Head- 
quarters and  gave  Lord  Malise  Graham  some  letters  to 
get  through  for  me:  the  General,  Sir  Charles  Fergusson, 
kept  me  talking  for  half  an  hour.  He  is  a  most  charming 
man,  and  a  great  friend  of  the  Drummonds.  He  told  me 
his  wife  wrote  saying  she  had  only  had  one  letter  and 
three  post-cards  from  him  since  the  war  began,  whereas 
he  has  written  between  twenty  and  thirty  letters  and 
scores  of  postcards.  So  you  see  you  are  not  the  only 
sufferer!  He  says  some  enterprising  young  censor  has 
been  tearing  up  Sir  John  French's  letters  —  who  doesn't 
see  the  joke  at  all! 

Sir  Charles  begged  me  to  come  down  and  chat  again. 

I  got  a  charming  letter  from  Christie  last  night  and 
will  answer  it  this  afternoon:  also  a  card  from  Winifred 
Gater  of  same  date,  and  letters  from  Herbert  Ward  and 


John  AyscougFs  Letters  to  his  Mother         41 

his  mother.  He  is  near  Tidworth  and  I  hope  you  will  be 
kind  to  him.  The  telegram  was  from  Lady  O'Conor, 
Mrs.  Wilfrid  Ward's  sister,  and  was  about  Aubrey 
Herbert,  youngest  brother  of  Lord  Carnarvon,  and 
cousin  of  the  Portsmouths.  I  do  hope  his  wounds  are 
not  severe  and  that  he  is  no  longer  missing. 

This  is  only  to  tell  you  I  am  quite  well.  I  must  shut 
up  and  go  down  to  Headquarters  to  arrange  about 
to-morrow's  Masses.  (This  is  Saturday.)  You  will  get 
a  grey  post-card  (posted  to-day)  on  Monday  because  a 
King's  Messenger  is  taking  it  in  his  bag. 

1 5  Field  Ambulance^  Expeditionary  Force 
Sunday^  7.30  a.m.,  September  27,  1914 

Yesterday  afternoon  I  got  your  big  envelope,  enclos- 
ing the  two  stocks  and  the  bit  of  silk,  and  by  the  same 
post  a  letter  from  Christie,  one  from  Father  Mather,  and 
one  from  you,  all  speaking  of  your  being  jubilant  on 
account  of  a  budget  of  letters  from  me.  I  wish  you 
would  always  date  your  letters,  and  also  mention  the 
date  of  the  last  of  mine  received.  The  stocks  seem  to 
have  been  sent  off  on  the  i6th,  and  so  they  took  exactly 
ten  days  to  arrive  —  as  the  King's  Messenger  does  the 
journey  from  London  to  us  in  twelve  hours,  I  can't 
think  why  it  should  require  ten  days  for  an  ordinary 
letter. 

We  have  just  had  a  very  annoying  false  alarm.  .  .  . 

Yesterday  being  Saturday  I  arranged  with  the  General 
commanding  this  Division,  Sir  Charles  Fergusson,  to  have 
the  troops  here  for  Mass  to-day  at  7.30  and  at  the  village 
church  at  9.30.  Lots  of  troops  were  coming,  and  yester- 
day afternoon  I  was  hearing  the  confessions  of  lots  of 
men  anxious  to  go  to  Communion  to-day  .  .  .  when, 
lo  and  behold,  at  4.20  this  morning,  comes  a  motor- 
bicyclist  messenger  with  a  dispatch,  "Be  ready  to  move 
at  once,"  and  all  were  up  and  off.     The  altar  I  had  rigged 


42         John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

up  yesterday  with  all  the  Mass  things  on  it  had  to  be 
packed  up  instantly,  and  all,  officers  and  men,  had  to 
gobble  up  anything  ready  in  view  of  a  day's  march  and 
no  regular  meals. 

I  was  the  last  reluctantly  to  break  my  fast.  Almost 
as  soon  as  I  had  done  so  news  came,  "False  alarm;  carry 
on  as  usual." 

It  is  maddening;  of  course  the  men  are  disappointed, 
and  wonder  why  there's  no  Mass:  and  it  all  upsets  me 
and  makes  me  feel  quite  ill. 

No  doubt  lots  of  men  will  roll  up  just  because  the 
Mass  has  been  countermanded. 

Father  Mather  wrote  in  excellent  spirits  and  seemed 
to  be  enjoying  his  brief  visit  to  you. 

Michaelmas  Day,  September  29,  191 4 

We  have  been  so  long  stationary  in  one  place  that 
you  must  expect  monotony  in  my  letters.  .  .  . 

Yesterday  afternoon  I  walked  with  one  of  our  officers 
to  a  village  about  four  miles  from  here,  chiefly  for  the 
walk,  and  partly  to  buy  anything  we  could  see  for  our 
Mess.  What  we  did  see  was  a  goose  (the  first  in  mufti), 
which  we  bought  for  to-night's  dinner  in  honour  of  St. 
Michael. 

It  was  a  very  pretty  walk  —  into  another  valley,  deep, 
green,  wooded  like  this  one,  and  hiding  long  stone  villages 
and  farmhouses  with  barns  fit  for  churches. 

At  C.  I  bought  some  shiny  gaiters  to  wear  when  the 
muddy  weather  returns:  they  were  not  splendid  but 
neither  were  they  dear. 

(How  deeply  interested  the  censor  will  be  in  these 
important  particulars!  One  almost  feels  bound  to  invent 
something  a  little  exciting  to  put  in,  lest  he  should  fall 
asleep  in  reading!) 

I  enjoyed  the  walk,  the  getting  away  from  the  group 
—  a  lot  of  people  together  never  do  suit  me  —  and  the 


John  Ayscough^s  Letters  to  his  Mother         43 

quiet  talk  with  one  person.  My  companion  was  a 
fellow  called  Thomson,  a  doctor,  of  course,  but  really  a 
civilian:  out  here  as  a  volunteer.  As  a  volunteer  he 
went  out  to  the  Balkan  war  last  year,  and  he  seems  to 
have  been  everywhere  —  in  the  China  revolution,  in 
Canada,  in  Australia,  etc.  He  is  a  nephew  of  Labouchere, 
the  founder  and  originator  of  Truth,  and  also  of  Thorold, 
Bishop  of  St.  Albans,  whose  children  became  Catholics 
(one  of  them,  Algar  Thorold,  I  knew  well  years  ago). 

This  morning  I  went  out,  attended  by  my  servant, 
armed  with  a  market-basket,  to  buy  some  vegetables  if 
I  could.  We  found  a  small,  rather  prosperous-looking 
farmhouse,  lonely  in  a  narrow  gorge-like  valley.  The 
farmer,  with  two  men,  we  saw  gathering  Indian  corn  for 
the  cattle.  He  smiled  and  assumed  (very  easily)  an 
expression  of  complete  stupidity  ...  of  vegetables, 
apparently,  he  had  never  heard.  But  his  wife  "under- 
stood vegetables  and  anything  else  we  wished,"  so  we 
went  on  to  the  homestead.  The  woman  —  comfortable, 
sagacious,  as  hard  as  a  brick  —  with  four  children,  came 
out  to  parley.  The  children  all  idle  and  bored,  schools 
being  shut,  "cause  de  la  guerre." 

I  was  careful  to  show  my  money.  I  am  always  in 
dread  of  these  poor  folk  thinking  one  comes  to  get  their 
stuff  out  of  them  for  nothing.  Would  she  sell  us  as 
many  vegetables  as  she  thought  two  francs  would  justly 
buy? 

She  evidently  meant  to  —  and  did.  But  while  digging 
the  potatoes,  onions,  carrots,  etc.,  she  spoke  —  and,  as  I 
thought,  wisely. 

"Money!"  says  she.  "Look  at  those  four  little  ones  with 
each  a  mouth  —  and  their  father  has  a  mouth,  too  —  all 
open.  And,  when  winter  comes,  what  shall  I  put  in,  if 
I  sell  away  all  the  stuff  we  have  planted  and  w^atered  for 
our  winter  provision.''  Presently  you  go  back  chez 
vous?"     ("Please  God,"  says  I). 

*' Bien!"  says  she.     "You  go  back:   and  you  find  your 


44         John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

stuff  there:  but  we  stay,  and  see  —  ours  Is  all  gone,  if  we 
sell  it  to  you.     Thus  does  it  seem  to  me." 

However,  she  filled  the  basket,  and  put  in  a  little 
extra  after  I  had  given  her  small  girl  two  sous  to  buy 
sweets. 

I  cannot  tell  you  how  entirely  reasonable  I  thought  the 
poor  woman,  who  looked  at  it  all  from  the  point  of  view 
of  a  mother  with  four  children  and  a  big  fifth  child  of  a 
husband.     Still,  I  did  argue  a  little  —  to  encourage  her. 

"Doubtless  Madame  understands,"  said  I,  "that  it  is 
not  our  joke  that  we  come  here  to  France,  some  to  get 
killed,  some  to  have  their  ears  blown  off,  and  so  follow- 
ing.    It  is  perhaps  — " 

''Nous  aider y'^  she  chipped  in,  "bien." 

"Jlors!"  say  I.  "You  give  me  ten  francs'  worth /or 
ten  francs;  and  keep  the  rest.  If  we  had  stayed  at 
home  it  would  have  been  the  Germans  who  would  have 
taken  all  —  and  there  would  have  been  no  francs." 

"C'est  ^a!"  says  she. 

It  was  an  interesting  visit:    a  tiny  war  parenthesis. 


15  Field  Ambulance,  Expeditionary  Force 
Written  September  30,  1914,  z^'ill  be  posted, 

October  i,  1914 

To-morrow,  Thursday,  will  bring  us  a  new  month. 
Saturday  will  be  your  birthday,  and  this  year  you  must 
keep  it  without  me  —  the  first  time  for  two-and-twenty 
years.  Well,  I  shall  say  Mass  for  you,  and  say  many, 
many  prayers  for  you,  though  that  I  am  continually 
doing. 

Yesterday  morning  we  had  Mass  for  Michaelmas  in 
our  huge  barn  loft;  and  a  number  of  men  came  to  it; 
just  behind  the  altar  was  the  back  of  the  great  dove-cote 
—  a  fine  architectural  feature  of  the  great  range  of  once 
monastic  buildings:    and  the  pigeons  kept  up  a  pleasant 


John  Ayscough' s  Letters  to  his  Mother         45 

mothery  noise  all  the  while.     *'Boo-hoo"  they  seemed  to 
be  saying  to  War. 

I  wrote  a  long  letter  to  Mr.  Gater  this  morning  and  it 
took  all  the  time;  it  was  on  business  and  I  daresay  he 
will  bring  it  to  you.  It  contained  a  sort  of  explanation 
about  what  money  there  would  be  in  case  of  my  death. 
I  feel  uncommonly  lively,  but  one  may  as  well  be  business- 
like and  get  things  ship-shape.  Yesterday  afternoon  I 
went  for  a  walk  all  alone,  which  I  do  not  often  do;  we 
are  not  supposed  to  wander  forth  without  leave  or  saying 
precisely  where  we  are  going  and  our  C.  O.  does  not  like 
me  to  make  a  practice  of  it  lest  I  should  be  snapped  up 
by  Uhlans  (I've  never  seen  one  yet)  or  saunter  into  the 
enemy's  lines!  However,  it  was  rather  a  treat,  the 
purposeless  stroll  all  alone,  with  no  one  to  make  talk  for, 
just  through  the  woody  valleys  and  not  to  any  town  or 
village.  The  path  led  through  a  delightful  wood,  lining 
a  deep  valley  with  richly  cultivated  bottom,  very 
secluded,  silent,  and  peaceful;  you  might  have  forgotten 
there  was  any  war  but  for  the  monotonous  boom  of  the 
guns,  and  for  the  busy  aeroplanes  spying  far  up  in  the 
blue  —  one  of  these  last  came  down  most  beautifully,  in 
a  perfect  cork-screw  spiral  of  very  narrow  radius.  I 
said  my  rosary  as  I  walked,  and  picked  this  flower  for 
you  —  very  pretty  when  I  did  pick  it.  I  loved  my 
walk  and  the  quietness  and  loneliness  of  it;  of  course  I 
was  thinking  of  you  all  the  time  and  as  homesick  as  if  I 
were  five  and  forty  years  younger  and  a  small  boy  at 
school. 

Thursday^  8  a.m. 

Well,  October  is  come  in  —  come  in  wreathed  in  cool 
smiles,  brilliant  but  autumnal.  By  6.45  I  was  out  and 
enjoying  a  short  stroll  with  my  French  dog.  (I  don't 
know  to  whom  he  belonged  originally  —  not  to  the 
people  of  the  farm  —  or  whence  he  came,   but  he  has 


46         John  Ayscougifs  Letters  to  his  Mother 

adopted  me  and  goes  where  I  go,  sits  under  the  table  at 
my  feet  at  meals,  and  always  turns  up  whenever  I  go  out.) 
It  all  looked  lovely,  though  not  so  exquisite  and  unearthly 
as  last  night  after  moonrise,  when  the  moonlight  and  the 
opal  relics  of  the  sunset  were  rivals  in  the  sky. 

There  has  been  no  return  of  the  rain  yet  and  the  health 
of  all  our  troops  is  splendid.  It  is  no  longer  warm,  but 
not  really  cold:  of  course  we  have  no  fires  and  are  in  no 
hurry  for  the  cold  weather. 

Friday,  October  2,  1914 

I  WRITE  this  from  a  new  place.  I  was  peacefully 
darning  my  socks  last  night,  just  before  dinner-time,  when 
orders  came  for  an  instant  move  and  off  we  came.  It 
was  a  lovely  night,  with  a  huge  moon,  and  the  "trek" 
was  not  long,  so  I  quite  enjoyed  it.  One  could  see  the 
beautiful  country  through  which  we  were  passing  per- 
fectly, deep,  deep  valleys  brimming  with  shining  mist, 
wooded  ridges  rising  like  islands  above  the  white  sea  of 
fog;  then,  in  other  places,  no  mist  but  clear  field  and 
spinneys,  camp-fires  setting  their  yellow  and  red  lights 
against  the  moon's  silver-blue.  There  were  big  groups 
of  soldiers  sitting  around  these  fires,  with  wonderful 
effects  of  black  and  red.  I  wish  to  goodness  I  could 
paint;  what  studies  I  could  get  here!  Halfway  along 
the  march  I  felt  a  little  soft  push  against  my  leg  and 
there  was  my  French  dog,  w^ho  was  determined  not  to  be 
left  behind:  and  here  he  is  —  here  he  was,  indeed,  the 
moment  I  arrived  last  night.  I  spent  most  of  yesterday 
walking:  a  little  stroll  before  breakfast,  a  walk  in  the 
woods  between  breakfast  and  lunch,  after  tea  a  walk  with 
one  of  our  Majors,  and  then  the  march. 

We  are  again  billeted  in  a  very  good  house  tacked  on 
to  an  old  ruined  castle:  the  latter  exactly  the  sort  you 
may  see  in  dozens  of  Irish  villages;  a  thick  round  tower 
almost  without  windows,  and  not  much  else:  the  cabins 
huddled  close  up  against  it. 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother         47 

At  our  last  place  we  could  post  letters  every  day  and 
got  mails  four  or  five  days  a  week  —  I  don't  know  how 
it  will  be  here. 

The  man  who  owns  this  chateau  or  farm  is  away  fighting 
at  the  war  and  his  father  is  in  charge  here:  he  is  a  grim, 
rather  dismal  person  who  mopes  around,  bemoaning  the 
war  —  it  has  cost  them,  he  says,  60,000  francs  here 
already  —  that  is  £2400. 

When  I  have  done  writing  this  I  shall  read:  there 
are  plenty  of  books  here  —  the  first  I  have  seen  since 
leaving  home  —  mostly  French  translations  of  English 
books.     I  shall  start  on  Pickwick  in  French. 

I  hope  you  will  have  a  nice  day  for  your  birthday 
to-morrow.  It  is  dull  here  to-day,  with  a  Scotch  mist; 
so  that  we  are  lucky  to  have  an  excellent  roof  over  our 
heads. 

I  think  my  letters  get  duller  and  duller;  but  here  one 
hears  of  nothing  but  the  war,  and  it  is  exactly  the  thing 
one  must  not  write  about. 

Sunday,  October  4,  1914 

I  AM  writing  this  at  a  comfortable  writing-table  in  a 
very  beautiful  room  of  a  singularly  beautiful  and  interest- 
ing chateau.  It  was  once  a  great  Cistercian  Abbey,  and 
in  the  huge  and  lovely  ruins  of  the  Abbey  Church  I  said 
Mass  this  morning.  We  arrived  here  last  night  at 
about  eleven  o'clock:  and  most  lovely  the  ruins  of  the 
abbey  looked  in  the  brilliant  moonlight. 

The  chateau  we  found  full  of  "bosses"  —  Head- 
quarters of  the  Brigade,  Headquarters  of  the  Division, 
etc.,  troops  everywhere:  the  whole  beautiful  park  a 
camp. 

Our  billet  was  a  barn,  deep  in  clean  straw  where  we 
were  very  comfortable,  but  where  the  rats  were  also 
very  comfortable  and  at  home. 

I  got  up  early  and  as  soon  as  I  could  get  hold  of  any  of 


48         John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

the  Staff  people  I  arranged  to  have  Mass  in  the  ruins 
at  9.30. 

The  Comte  and  Comtesse  de  Montesquiou-Fezenzac, 
to  whom  the  castle  belongs,  came  and  were  very  much 
edified  and  pleased.  They  talk  excellent  English  and 
the  Comte  told  me  he  would  give  me  a  room  to  write  to 
you  in. 

So  here  I  am;  the  castle  is  really  huge  and  fine,  the 
rooms  very  large  and  beautifully  designed,  furnished, 
etc.  It  is  the  most  charming  and  most  imposing  private 
house  I  ever  saw  in  France. 

And  the  Chatelain  and  Chatelaine  seem  very  nice 
people.  The  abbey  was  destroyed  at  the  Revolution 
about  one  hundred  and  twenty  years  ago,  the  magnificent 
church  dating  from  1250,  about  —  it  is  quite  immense, 
as  big  as  a  cathedral. 

I  will  try  and  get  some  picture  post-cards  to  show 
you  later  on. 

I  thought  much  of  you  yesterday,  and  hoped  you 
were  well  and  happy  on  your  birthday;  but  I  could  not 
drink  your  health  in  anything  stronger  than  water. 

We  left  our  last  place  about  six  o'clock  last  night  and 
got  here  about  eleven. 

All  afternoon  I  was  darning  my  socks  —  quite  success 
fully.     I  must  stop  now.     With  best  love  to  Christie. 

15  Field  Ambulance,  Expeditionary  Force 

Tuesday,  8  a.m.,  October  6,  1914 

On  Sunday  I  wrote  to  you  from  the  chateau  of  Long- 
bridge.  (There's  no  such  castle  in  France,  but  Long- 
bridge  is  my  nickname  for  it,  in  allusion  to  an  anecdote 
which  I  will  tell  you  some  day.)  After  luncheon  I  went 
for  a  walk  about  the  place;  the  park,  woods,  etc.,  remind 
one  very  much  indeed  of  Wardour,  except  that  the  ruins 
at  Wardour  are  those  of  a  castle  and  those  at  Longbridge 
are  abbey.     That  first  walk  I  took  by  myself:    and  said 


John  AyscougV s  Letters  to  his  Mother         49 

my  rosary  for  you  meanwhile.  It  was  all  marvellously 
beautiful  and  picturesque,  the  woods  full  of  troops  and 
picketed  horses  exactly  like  some  picture  by  Detaille. 
At  one  point  in  the  woods  there  was  a  pretty  waterfall  at 
which  two  soldiers  were  shaving!  As  soon  as  I  got  back 
from  my  solitary  walk  I  went  for  another  with  one  of 
our  officers.  At  nightfall  we  marched  and  arrived  here 
at  six  o'clock  yesterday  (Monday)  morning,  after  ten  or 
eleven  hours  on  the  road.  We  are  in  very  comfortable 
quarters,  —  beds,  chairs,  washing-stands,  etc.,  and  it  is 
all  exquisitely  clean  and  fresh.  Quite  close  to  us  are 
the  ruins  of  another  abbey,  with  a  perfectly  lovely  and 
intact  rose  window  in  the  western  gable.  About  a  mile 
beyond  the  ruins,  or  less,  is  a  magnificent  castle  perched 
high  on  a  rocky,  wooded  bluff — as  fine  as  any  I  have 
ever  seen  in  France:  oddly  enough  it  belongs  to  people 
of  our  name,  Dru:  for  Dru  and  Drew  are  both  given 
indiff'erently  in  Domesday  Book  to  the  same  man,  our 
famous  founder.  The  little  village,  instead  of  cowering 
under  the  castle  as  so  often  happens,  hides  behind  it  on 
the  top  of  the  rock.  The  church  is  interesting  and 
contains  many  ancient  pictures  given  by  M.  and  Mme. 
Dru  of  the  castle.  After  luncheon  I  walked  through  the 
woods  behind  this  house  and  got  magnificent  views  of  the 
castle,  quite  different  from  those  one  gets  from  the  road. . . . 
Last  night  we  stayed  on  here,  and  had  a  luxurious  sleep 
in  excellent  clean  beds  and  this  morning  I  had  some 
warm  water  to  wash  in !  There's  glory  for  you.  My  new 
servant  is  a  treasure. 

15  Field  Ambulance,  Expeditionary  Force 

8.30  A.M.  October  10,  1914 

Excuse  this  paper  being  a  little  dirty  —  I  began  and 
got  as  far  as  the  date  yesterday,  and  had  to  pack  up, 
so  that  the  paper  and  my  brushes,  sponge-bag,  etc., 
have  been  jumbled  together  all  night. 


50         'John  Ayscough^s  Letters  to  his  Mother 

I  have  been  doing  a  good  bit  of  marching  (I  mean 
real  marching  on  foot)  lately:  and  we  have  been  moving 
each  day,  so  that  we  have  not  had  any  letters  —  we 
only  get  them  when  we  are  stationary  for  a  day  or  two. 

You  must  not  picture  me  sleeping  out  in  the  fields 
now,  for  I  have  slept  indoors  quite  a  long  time:  some- 
times in  a  regular  bed  with  sheets,  and  sometimes  on  the 
floor  in  my  own  rugs.  I  can  always  sleep  very  well  in 
the  latter,  and  do  not  find  it  at  all  uncomfortable  or 
cold. 

Also  we  have  had  heaps  to  eat.  On  the  line  of  march 
meals  are  odd  and  taken  at  odd  times:  but  when  we  are 
stationary  we  get  regular  meals  at  regular  hours. 

On  Tuesday  afternoon  we  left  the  place  near  which  was 
the  fine  family  chateau  I  told  you  of.  We  marched 
through  several  villages  to  a  town  called  St.  Martin 
and  there  slept.  At  6.15  on  Wednesday  we  breakfasted 
and  at  7.15  marched  again,  passing  through  many  vil- 
lages with  interesting  old  churches  and  one  with  a  fine 
calvary  at  its  entrance. 

About  midday  we  reached  a  place  on  the  railway  and 
at  6  P.M.  were  entrained  and  moved  on.  It  was  nearly 
eight  weeks  since  we  had  been  in  a  train  before.  The 
Commanding  Officer  and  I  had  a  first  class  to  ourselves 
(my  French  dog  shared  my  half  of  it).  I  am  treated  as 
senior  officer  in  everything  except  the  command,  and 
get  best  bed,  best  place,  etc. :  so  you  see  I  do  get  some 
good  out  of  being  a  ''full  Colonel." 

It  was  on  the  morning  of  that  day  I  met  Sir  Horace 
Smith-Dorrien  and  had  the  talk  I  told  you  of.  I  expect 
Lady  Smith-Dorrien  has  been  to  see  you  by  this  time. 
They  are  a  most  devoted  couple  and  she,  too,  must  be 
sad  without  her  man.  It  was  bitterly  cold  that  night 
in  the  train,  but  as  soon  as  the  sun  was  up  next  day  it 
got  brilliantly  fine  and  very  warm.  Besides  I  was 
marching  again  and  that  soon  warmed  me.  We  marched 
some  five  or  six  miles   to  a  big   town   called  .  .  .  and 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother         51 

another  five  beyond  it;  then  a  long  halt  to  await  orders; 
at  6  P.M.  set  ofF  again  on  a  further  march  of  twelve  miles. 
At  I  A.M.  (in  the  middle  of  the  night)  we  reached  our 
billet  —  a  small,  not  very  clean  farm.  However,  the 
kitchen  was  warm  and  we  had  a  meal  and  went  to  bed. 
I  had  quite  a  grand  one  and  the  farm  folk  made  no  end 
of  a  fuss  of  "Monseigneur"  —  certainly  the  first  they 
had  ever  entertained. 

Last  night  at  seven  o'clock  we  marched  to  a  village 
called  .  .  .  and  had  good  beds  there.  We  were  all  in 
different  houses,  I,  my  servant,  and  another  officer: 
I  used  the  Oxo  cubes  Winifred  Gater  sent,  and  with 
the  beef-tea  they  made  and  some  ration  biscuit  we  made 
an  excellent  supper. 

At  6.30  we  marched  on  here  —  only  two  or  three  miles: 
and  here  we  are  stuck  till  two  or  three  in  the  afternoon 
waiting  for  motor  lorries  to  carry  us  forward. 

Unfortunately  the  long  stops  are  always  in  poky, 
uninteresting  places;  if  we  come  to  a  Cathedral  town 
with  things  to  see  we  skirt  it,  or  hurry  through  at  quick 
march  with  no  chance  of  seeing  anything.  I  hope  you 
are  all  well  and  flourishing.  My  best  love  to  Christie, 
and  to  the  Gaters;  and  be  sure  to  tell  Bert  how  grateful 
I  am  to  him  for  his  care  of  you  all. 

Now  I  must  stop,  simply  because  there  is  nothing 
to  tell  you. 

Monday,  4  p.m.,  October  12,  1914 

I  AM  always  having  to  apologise  for  my  note-paper; 
by  keeping  a  sheet  or  two  in  my  haversack  I  can  often 
write  you  a  letter  during  a  halt,  or  at  some  place  on  the 
march,  when  otherwise  it  would  be  quite  impossible. 
But  then  such  sheets  of  paper  have  to  be  crunched  up 
with  all  the  other  contents  of  the  haversack,  and  get 
dirty  and  crumpled. 

This  morning  we  had  to  be  up  soon  after  four  o'clock, 


52         John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

and  dress  nearly  in  the  dark  to  get  off  by  six:  and  just 
as  we  were  starting,  an  enormous  mail  was  put  into  my 
hands  —  five  fat  parcels  and  close  on  fifty  letters. 

The  parcels  were    (i)  cardigan  jacket   and  three  pair 

of  red  socks   from  you,  but   addressed    by   Mrs.    P ; 

(2)  a  writing  block  and  indelible  pencil  from  Mrs.  Gater 
—  very  useful:  and  I  wrote  to  her  on  it  during  a  halt 
on  the  line  of  march  to-day,  (3)  some  books  from  Chatto, 
(4)  ditto  from  Smith,  Elder  &  Co.,  (5)  a  packet  of  things 
for  the  men  from  my  kind  Jesuit  friend  at  Gardiner 
Street,  Dublin,  Father  Wrafter,  who  says  he  is  also 
sending  a  rug  for  myself.  His  affectionate  kindness  all 
along  has  been  most  touching,  seeing  how  very  brief 
our  acquaintance  was. 

So  far  I  wrote  this  afternoon:  now  I  begin  again  at 
9  P.M.  but  am  too  sleepy  to  finish,  having  been  up  since 
soon  after  four. 

This  evening  I  had  another  big  post,  with  two  letters 
from  you  —  one  telling  me  of  Christie's  departure,  and 
of  Winifred  Gater's  arrival.  I  am  so  sorry  to  hear  of 
Ver's  being  ordered  away:  it  will  be  a  trouble  to  Ahce 
and  her  mother,  and  of  course  they  will  be  anxious  for 
him.  Still  I  am  glad  to  think  there  is  the  Manor  House 
for  you  all  to  be  together  in. 

I  also  had  charming  letters  from  the  Duchess  of  Wel- 
lington, Christie,  the  Gaters  (Mrs.  and  Miss),  Herbert 
Ward,  Father  W'-after  (2),  Father  Keating  —  also  S.J., 
Father  Mather  (2),  and  the  dear  Bishop  —  a  most  delight- 
ful letter  full  of  heart  and  cheerful  encouragement.  He 
speaks  with  admiration  of  the  courageous,  cheerful 
letters  he  has  had  from  you. 

I  got  your  letter  long  ago  with  the  white  heather, 
and  am  pleased  that  you  had  mine  with  the  bits  of  flowers 
I  enclosed. 

The  Duchess  said  you  had  written  her  a  delightful 
letter:  and  both  she  and  her  husband  seem  to  have 
been    immensely    pleased   with   my   letter   to   her.     I'm 


John  AyscougV s  Letters  to  his  Mother         53 

glad  you  had  so  nice  a  letter  from  Lady  O'Conor:  she 
is  a  most  faithful,  warm-hearted  friend,  and  has  never 
cooled  or  wavered  in  a  friendship  of  over  thirty  years* 
standing.  It  touches  me  to  hear  of  her  speaking  as 
if  it  were  anything  to  my  credit  that  /  should  remain 
unchanged  in  spite  of  having  become  a  "famous  author." 

So  Jack  and  George  are  both  officers  —  and  Herbert 
Ward  too:    how  the  world  hurries  these  days! 

You  say  the  frost  has  finished  up  asters,  begonias, 
etc.  Here  we  have  had  some  night  frosts,  but  I  see 
lots  of  begonias  in  the  gardens  we  pass. 

It  is  hard  to  describe  my  recent  occupations,  as  they 
have  all  consisted  of  movements  from  place  to  place, 
and  I  must  not  mention  any  of  the  names  of  those  places. 

Here  we  are,  for  the  first  time,  quartered  in  a  town 
(about  the  size  of  Salisbury),  with  quaint,  twisty  streets, 
a  huge  "place"  with  a  marvellous  thirteenth-century 
belfry  in  the  midst  of  it,  a  fine  church,  and  some  fine 
Renaissance  houses. 

Now  I  cannot  hold  my  eyes  open  and  must  go  to  bed. 

I  am  glad  you  like  hearing  of  my  French  dog:  poor 
little  beast,  he  is  so  fond  of  me,  and  has  followed  me 
such  a  huge  distance.  But  he  can't  abide  my  going  into 
a  church,  because  he  mustn't,  and  it  makes  him  fright- 
fully jealous;  he  can't  make  up  his  mind  if  I  go  in  to 
eat  wonderful  meals  or  to  pat  some  dog  whom  he  sus- 
pects but  cannot  bite. 

Friday^  October  16,  19 14 

Since  Monday  I  have  had  a  letter  written  for  you  but 
have  had  no  opportunity  to  post  it.  On  that  day, 
about  2  P.M.,  I  came  away  with  a  "section"  of  the  Field 
Ambulance  to  open  a  Clearing  Hospital  here;  and  it  is 
only  when  we  are  with  our  "unit"  that  we  can  get  letters 
censored  and  passed  for  post.  Since  midday  on  Monday 
I  have  been  busy  every  moment  of  the  day,  and  have 


54         John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

been  quite  unable  to  write,  nor  can  I  write  much  now, 
as  I  must  go  off  to  visit  wounded  in  another  hospital  — 
there  are  three  for  me  to  visit. 

During  the  last  four  and  a  half  days  all  my  time  has 
been  spent  in  the  wards  attending  to  wounded  —  not 
spiritually  only  (or  chiefly)  but  giving  them  tea,  coffee, 
beef-tea,  sweets  (fellows  with  slight  wounds),  chocolate, 
bread,  jam,  cigarettes,  etc.  I  had  no  letters  for  a  week; 
then  came  a  huge  mail  on  Monday  night,  and  a  mail 
every  day  since.  This  morning  I  had  a  letter  from  you 
and  two  from  Christie  ...  I  do  receive  all  your  letters 
and  other  people's  —  also  all  parcels  —  in  time,  but  they 
come  irregularly. 

I  have  received  the  big  box  of  biscuits,  and  distributed 
them,  with  coffee,  to  wounded,  half  an  hour  after  I  got 
them.  Also  chocolates,  medals,  crucifixes,  sweets,  etc. 
from  nuns  at  Darlington,  New  Hall,  etc..  Father  Wrafter, 
and  others.  Your  cardigan  and  socks  arrived  a  week 
ago:    and  I  have  had  all  the  cigarettes. 

We  are  in  a  billet  here,  and  the  people  of  the  house 
cook  for  us  —  excellent  French  middle-class  cookery  — 
a  bit  szvashy,  but  a  welcome  change  after  our  eternal 
bacon  and  tinned  beef. 

The  French  dog  has  been  unwell  but  is  better:  I 
should  like  to  bring  him  home  if  possible.  He  is  very 
well-behaved,  moral,  domestic  in  his  tastes,  and  de- 
murely intelligent,  but  I  fear  egoistic  and  absorbed  in  his 
own  creature  comforts. 

It  is  odd  being  in  a  town  —  this  first  time  during  the 
war:  but  I  have  been  too  busy  to  sally  forth  and  view  it. 


15  Field  Ambulance,  Expeditionary  Force 

Sunday,  October  18,  191 4 

I   HAVE  just  been   told  that  they   are  sending  letters 
to  the  field  post  office  immediately,  so  I  can  write  you 


John  Ayscough^s  Letters  to  his  Mother         55 

a  mere  word  to  tell  you  I  am  all  right  —  well  in  health, 
and   in   veiy   comfortable   quarters. 

We  are  where  we  have  been  all  the  week,  in  a  country- 
town  of  65,000  inhabitants  in  charge  of  a  temporary- 
hospital:    and  I  have  been  very  busy  all  the  time. 

I  say  Mass  at  seven  o'clock  each  morning  in  the  chapel 
of  a  permanent  hospital  taken  care  of  by  Franciscan  nuns, 
of  whom  two  are  Irish:    dear  creatures. 

I  heard  another  priest's  Mass  this  morning  before  my 
own  —  a  man  with  a  handsome,  keen,  manly  face: 
and  when  he  took  off  his  vestments  in  the  sacristy  at 
the  end  of  Mass,  he  was  a  French  soldier  in  red  pantaloons, 
huge  knee  boots,  etc.!  It  does  seem  to  me  so  touching 
—  these  poor  priests  having  to  go  off  and  soldier.  You 
understand  he  is  not  a  chaplain;  just  a  private 
soldier. 

You  are  not  to  bother  about  me  and  the  cold:  re- 
member we  are  indoors  in  good  quarters,  and  I  do  not 
in  the  least  believe  I  shall  feel  the  cold.  The  French 
dog  sends  his  love. 


15  Field  Ambulance,  Expeditionary  Force, 

Tuesday,  October  20,  19 14 

I  MET  one  of  the  Staff  of  our  Division  just  now,  and 
he  congratulated  me  on  my  name  having  been  mentioned 
in  dispatches  —  published  in  the  Times  of  yesterday, 
October  19th,  which  a  King's  Messenger  brought  out 
here.  He  also  said,  "You  will  be  mentioned  again  for 
subsequent  services." 

I  am  glad,  I  must  say.  .  .  . 

All  last  week  we  were  very  busy  in  our  temporary 
hospital,  but  now  we  are  slack  again,  and  there  are  not 
many  cases  left  in  it,  and  no  new  ones  have  come  in 
hardly  during  the  last  forty-eight  hours. 

It  is  the  same  in  the  other  hospitals  in  this  town  which 


56         John  AyscougFs  Letters  to  his  Mother 

I  attend  as  chaplain  —  most  of  the  cases  gone  off  to  the 
"base,"  and  no  new  ones  arriving. 

I  have  been  given  such  a  lot  of  things  lately:  Father 
Wrafter  sent  me  a  beautiful  rug,  large,  warm,  and  soft 
as  silk:  six  large  white  silk  handkerchiefs,  one  pair  of 
soft  grey  leather  gloves,  one  pair  soft  brown  wool-lined. 

Madam  Clary  sent  me  long  knitted  socks,  six  fine 
cambric  handkerchiefs   and   cashmere  socks. 

A  certain  General  Hickey  ...  on  being  invalided 
home  gave  me  as  follows:  a  soft  woollen  shirt  (just  like 
silk),  I've  got  it  on  now;  a  soft  Jaeger  jacket  as  light  as 
a  feather,  but  very  warm;  inner  vests,  drawers,  socks, 
woollen  helmets,  large  towels,  etc.  I  have  given  some 
of  them  away  and  kept  the  rest.  They  would  cost  a 
lot,  and  are  a  most  useful  gift  —  please  don't  encourage 
anyone  now  to  send  me  anything.  I  have  more  than 
I  want:  also  I  receive  abundant  presents  of  cigarettes, 
etc. 

Don't  let  the  Gaters  send  more;  they  will  need  to 
be  thinking  of  Cyril  and  his  needs. 

I  must  stop  now.  I  hope  you  are  well,  and  in  good 
spirits.  Don't  imagine  me  enduring  any  hardships, 
for  we  are  in  excellent  quarters.  And  go  on  looking 
forward  to  my  speedy  return. 


1 5  Field  Ambulancey  Expeditionary  Force 

Friday,  October  23,  191 4 

I  HOPE  you  are  quite  well.  I  have  had  plenty  of 
parcels  from  all  sorts  of  people,  but  no  letter  from  you 
lately:  and  most  of  your  recent  letters  were  undated. 
Oddly  enough,  any  letters  from  Dublin  reach  me  much 
more  quickly  than  those  from  you  or  other  places  in 
England. 

I  haven't  much  to  say  now  that  I  am  writing:  because, 
though  we  have  been  very  busy  since  coming  here,  it  is 


John  AyscougU s  Letters  to  his  Mother         57 

always  doing  the  s^me  thing,  i.e.,  attending  to  wounded. 

There  are  four  hospitals  which  I  visit,  and  they  are 
all  receiving  a  constant  stream  of  new  wounded. 

This  is  so  terribly  sad  and  depressing  to  me  to  see, 
that  I  don't  feel  equal  to  writing  about  it  too. 

I  am  quite  well  and  am  in  very  comfortable  quarters; 
in  a  house  quite  close  to  our  temporary  hospital.  The 
nights  are  cold  now;  but  instead  of  sleeping  in  the  fields 
I  have  a  most  sumptuous  bed  (with  sheets,  blankets, 
etc.)  to  sleep  in;  nor  is  it  at  all  Hkely  we  shall  sleep  out 
any  more. 


1 5  Field  Ambulance^  Expeditionary  Force 

Saturday y  October  24,  191 4 

Ten  weeks  ago  to-day  I  left  home  to  join  my  unit  at 
Dublin  ...  it  seems  like  ten  months,  at  least.  Your 
last  letters  have  not  been  quite  so  cheerful  as  the  earlier 
ones,  as  though  you  were  finding  it  hard  to  keep  up 
your  courage  —  but  cheer  up,  I  believe  the  war  is  really 
coming  to  an  end.  In  this  battle  which  still  continues 
there  have  been  many,  very  many,  wounded:  but  we 
hear  that  our  own  losses  are  nothing  compared  to  those 
of  the  Germans;  and  the  places  of  the  German  killed 
are  taken  by  boys  and  old  men,  which  shows  their  re- 
serves are  being  quickly  used  up. 

Austria  cannot  fight  much  longer,  and  would  not  be 
fighting  now  if  she  pleased  herself.  I  believe  that  the 
enemy  will  soon  want  an  armistice.   .   .  . 

The  French  dog  sends  his  love  and  begs  to  say  that 
he  hopes  to  see  you  some  day. 

Father  Wrafter  continues  to  send  me  parcels  of  all 
sorts  of  things  for  myself  and  for  the  men.  Isn't  he 
wonderfully  kind? 

I'm  sure  you'll  say  this  is  a  very  dull  letter;  but  I 
mayn't  tell  you  war  news,  and  there's  nothing  else  to  tell. 


58         '^ohn  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

1 5  Field  Ambulance,  Expeditionary  Force 

October  27,  1914 

Though  I  wrote  to  you  yesterday  I  forgot  to  mention 
what  I  was  thinking  of  when  I  began  writing  —  that  it 
was  thirty-six  years  ago  yesterday  that  I  became  a 
Cathohc:   the  really  great  event  of  my  hfe. 

This  letter  can  only  be  a  mere  "Good  Morning"  for 
I  have  nothing  to  say. 

For  over  two  weeks  now  my  time  has  been  entirely 
spent  in  work  among  the  wounded,  in  hospitals,  and 
one  day  is  exactly  like  another. 

Yesterday  at  sunset  I  buried  the  German  lad  to  whom 
I  gave  the  Last  Sacraments  the  day  before.  It  made 
me  very  sad. 

Just  before  that  I  found  two  German  prisoners  in  a 
ward  at  one  of  the  hospitals,  and  one  of  them  heard  me 
talking  in  German  to  the  other.  "Who  are  you  talking 
to?"  he  asked;  "am  I  not  the  only  German  here?" 
(He  was  wounded  in  the  chest  and  unable  to  sit  up  and 
look  round.)  I  told  him  there  was  another  German  there 
and  had  them  put  side  by  side,  so  that  they  could  talk 
to  each  other,  and  they  both  seemed  delighted.  One  of 
them  thought  he  would  reward  me  by  a  little  flattery 
and  asked  if  I  was  not  a  German  Bishop.  (I  can  really 
speak  very  little  German  and  he  knew  it  well.)  Another 
German  prisoner,  in  our  own  hospital  here,  was  found 
to  have  six  gold  watches  on  him!  So  I  fear  he  had  been 
making  a  collection  of  them.  .  .  . 

•  15  Field  Ambulance,  Expeditionary  Force 

Thursday,  9  a.m.,  October  29,  1914 

Please  excuse  this  funny  little  French  envelope: 
I  had  about  two  hundred  envelopes  and  lots  of  paper 
the  day  before  yesterday,  but  gave  one  envelope  and  one 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother         59 

sheet  of  paper  to  each  man  who  asked  me,  and  it  all 
disappeared.  So  now  I  have  left  no  envelope  but  this 
one  till  I  buy  some  more  in  the  town. 

Of  course  I  can  buy  nearly  everything  here,  for  the 
Germans  have  never  been  here:  in  the  towns  where 
they  have  been  one  can  buy  nothing,  as  everything  has 
been  swept  away.  As  I  went  out  to  Mass  this  morning, 
about  six  forty-five,  it  was  just  like  a  London  morning 
in  late  autumn,  a  chill  white  fog,  with  black  houses  and 
trees  groping  through  it.  (I  was  very  glad  we  were 
not  sleeping  out  but  in  excellent  beds.)  Now,  however, 
the  fog  has  nearly  gone,  and  will  soon  be  gone  quite, 
the  sun  is  bright  and  we  shall  have  another  lovely  day 
like  yesterday  and  the  day  before.  I  wonder  if  I  shall 
have  any  more  marching  —  I  like  it,  and  the  pictures 
it  has  left  in  my  memory  are  cheery  and  pleasant  — 
except  of  the  earlier  marches  when  we  passed  over  ground 
where  there  had  been  shelling  or  fighting. 

After  writing  to  you  yesterday  I  worked  hard  in  our 
own  hospital  till  three,  lunched,  and  went  off  at  once  to 
No.  6  Hospital,  where  I  was  busy  for  a  long  time  giving 
the  Last  Sacraments  to  English  and  German  soldiers. 

There  was  a  good  many  German  wounded  prisoners, 
besides  those  dangerous,  practically  dying  cases  I  have 
just  mentioned.  It  is  extraordinary  how  their  officers 
keep  them  in  the  dark.  None  had  the  least  idea  where- 
abouts in  France  they  were:  some  did  not  know  they 
were  in  France  at  all,  and  many  thought  they  were  on 
the  coasts!  (Embarkation  for  England,  I  suppose.) 
They  are  almost  all  nice  fellows,  some  few  not,  but  very 
few. 

One  lad  under  eighteen  and  looking  fifteen,  was  most 
touching.  Such  a  baby,  with  such  childish  manners, 
yet  fully  conscious  that  he  was  dying,  and  quite  cheerful 
about  it  —  only  hopping  with  eagerness  at  sight  of  a 
priest.  I  suppose  I  shall  always  look  back  on  this  as  the 
most  interesting  time  of  my  life,  however  sad  it  may  be. 


6o         John  AyscougFs  Letters  to  his  Mother 

We  all  feel  sure  that  the  war  is  on  its  last  legs.  I 
believe  this  battle  will  about  end  it:  the  Germans  have 
failed  (i)  in  the  attempt  to  reach  Paris;  (2)  in  the  long 
battle  of  the  Aisne  —  the  longest  in  history,  with  the 
largest  number  of  men  engaged;  (3)  and  they  have  failed 
here.  They  meant  to  turn  our  left  and  get  round  that 
way  towards  Paris.  And  they  wanted  to  get  to  Paris 
and  they  have  failed:  on  the  Belgian  coast  they  have 
been  hammered  horribly. 

Tou  will  see  that  I  am  right  and  that  the  enemy  will 
very  soon  be  crying  out  for  an  armistice.  After  her 
treatment  of  Belgium  and  French  towns  and  villages 
she  will  never  let  it  come  to  an  invasion  of  Germany  by 
the  French  and  Belgians. 

15  Field  Ambulance,  Expeditionary  Force 

This  will  be  a  very  short  letter.  Still  it  will  tell  you 
that  I  am  very  well  and  flourishing,  and  have  heaps  to 
do,  which  always  suits  me. 

Yesterday  I  got  a  heap  of  parcels  (three  from  Fr. 
Wrafter)  and  your  letter  of  the  i8th;  that  is  not  so  bad, 
arriving  in  exactly  a  week.  I  think  you  may  be  always 
sure  of  my  getting  your  letters  sooner  or  later.  Father 
Wrafter  sent  me  two  hundred  more  cigarettes  for  myself, 
besides  all  he  sent  for  the  men. 

Yesterday  I  gave  the  Last  Sacraments  to  a  German 
prisoner,  most  devout,  and  only  eighteen.  He  died 
almost  at  once,  but  thanked  me  again  and  again  for  my 
ministrations.  "O  dear  God!  What  will  my  mother 
do?"  he  kept  saying.  "Only  eighteen,  and  to  die  to-day. 
Yes,  to-day.  And  I  have  done  no  harm  to  die  for. 
Oh,  my  poor  mother!  She  will  look  always  for  me  com- 
ing back,  and  never  shall  I  come.  Try  to  sleep.?  I 
shall  sleep  without  any  trying,  and  no  trying  will  ever 
waken  me  .  .  ." 

Thank  God  our  fellows  are  most  kind  to  the  German 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother         6i 

prisoners.  They  would  do  anything  for  them:  does  it 
not  show  a  noble  nature  in  them?  You  will  see  a  rough 
English  soldier  strip  off  his  own  great-coat  and  give  up 
his  own  blanket  eagerly  for  a  prisoner,  and  he  feeds  his 
prisoner  like  a  pet  (like  a  wounded  rabbit  or  bird!)  and 
would  steal  any  other  fellow's  grub  to  give  to  his  prisoner. 
.  .  .  When  I  think  of  our  soldiers  I  never  know  whether 
to  laugh  or  cry. 

15  Field  Ambulance y  Expeditionary  Force 

Friday,  2  p.m.,  October  30,  1914 

I  WROTE  to  you  this  morning,  and  now  I  write 
another  this  afternoon  just  to  tell  you  not  to  be  surprised 
if  there  follows  a  period  of  hearing  nothing:  for  we 
have  just  received  orders  to  clear  our  hospital,  and  to 
rejoin  our  headquarters  to-morrow,  and  perhaps  shall 
have  no  chance  of  writing  or  posting  letters  for  days 
to  come  —  on  the  march  we  never  can. 

The  building  we  have  been  using  as  a  hospital  since 
last  Monday  fortnight,  i.e.,  since  October  12th,  is  to 
be  used  as  a  temporary  hospital  for  Indian  troops,  and 
we  move  right  away.  We  have  had  more  than  2500 
patients  and  the  work  has  been  very  heavy,  and  very 
sad  sometimes.  A  little  marching  will  be  a  relief  to  the 
mind  and  heart,  though  we  shall  not  be  so  comfortably 
placed  as  to  food  and  quarters. 

The  room  where  we  eat  and  sit,  when  we  have  time  to 
sit,  opens  out  of  the  kitchen  where  there  is  a  baby  — • 
from  that  baby  I  shall  part  with  perfect  resignation. 
He  has  never  ceased  yelling  ever  since  we  arrived. 

My  first  is  in  ^ed  but  not  in  pillow 

My  second's  in  ^Im  but  not  in  willow 

My  third's  a  drink  for  afternoon 

My  fourth's  the  first  letter  of  honeymoon 

My  fifth  is  the  fifth  of  English  vowels 

My  sixth  is  in  napkiw  but  not  in  towels 


62         John  Ayscough^s  Letters  to  his  Mother 

My  last  is  in  mating  and  slifeping  and  beating 
My  whole  is  a  town  where  your  son  is  now  writing 
While  others  are  noisily  shelling  or  fighting. 
There's  a  puzzle  for  you. 

15  Field  Ambulance,  Expeditionary  Force 
Monday,  8.30  a.m.,  November  2,  1914 

I  WROTE  the  enclosed  on  Friday  when  I  heard  we  were 
leaving  B.  but,  after  all,  had  no  means  of  sending  it  to 
the  field  post  and  have  been  carting  it  about  with  me 
ever  since.  We  left  B.  about  nine  on  Saturday  morning: 
I  said  Mass  at  the  chapel  of  the  nuns  in  charge  of  the 
civil  hospital,  and  said  good-bye  afterwards  to  the  two 
dear  Irish  sisters  and  the  Reverend  Mother.  Then 
I  ran  home,  had  some  breakfast,  and  off  we  marched. 
My  French  dog  got  lost  in  the  confusion  of  departure  and 
was  left  behind:  an  officer  in  Bethune  has  promised  to 
bring  him  on,  but  I  am  very  sad  about  it,  because  the 
poor  animal  is  so  devoted  to  me  I  know  he  will  be  wretched. 

We  arrived  about  four  o'clock  at  a  long,  clean  village 
called  M.  and  there  found  billets:  for  the  men,  horses, 
waggons,  etc.  at  the  village  school,  for  ourselves  in  the 
chateau.  That  chateau  will  have  to  come  into  some  book 
of  mine  —  evidently  built  about  1720  by  some  family 
of  distinction  (the  Barons  de  R.)  and  now  bought  by  a 
decent  middle-class  man  for  the  sake  of  the  farm  only. 

The  house  large,  fine,  and  in  perfect  repair  indoors; 
out  of  doors  just  beginning  to  show  signs  of  neglect  and 
decay.  A  magnificent  gloomy  staircase  of  rosewood; 
suites  of  locked  rooms,  and  for  us  the  whole  second  floor; 
above,  a  wilderness  of  ghost's  bedrooms.  ,  My  own  room 
was  very  comfortable,  and  though  I  fully  expected  to 
see  a  ghost,  I  did  not!  The  lawns  and  gardens  outside 
the  chateau  are  turned  into  fields,  except  an  island 
garden  with  a  stone-walled  moat  round  it,  approached 
by   a   lovely   stone   bridge   of  five   arches,    and   glorious 


John  Ayscouglfs  Letters  to  his  Mother         63 

wrought-iron  gates:  that  garden  is  simply  left  to  itself, 
and  has  chosen  to  be  a  wilderness  of  tangled  trees  and 
shrubs. 

Yesterday  morning  (Sunday)  at  eight  o'clock,  I  said 
Mass  in  the  village  church  —  very  large,  old  and  fine, 
in  excellent  state,  with  a  charming  old  Dean  and  parish 
priest.  There  was  a  large  congregation,  to  whom  he 
belauded   me  from  the  pulpit! 

He  told  me  that  the  village  used  to  belong  to  the 
Montmorencies,  who  were  Dukes  of  it.  I  never  saw  such 
a  clean  village  anywhere  —  by  the  way,  it  is  large  for  a 
village,  three  thousand  inhabitants.  At  9.30  a.m.  we 
marched  again  through  H.  and  other  villages  and  towns 
to  P.  where  we  rejoined  the  Field  Ambulance  after  three 
weeks'  absence:  and  v/here  we  found  letters,  etc.  I  had 
two  from  you,  besides  others. 

It  was  rather  odd,  but  the  moment  we  rejoined  Head- 
quarters (within  a  quarter  of  an  hour)  orders  to  move 
again  arrived:  and  we  were  all  soon  on  the  march  —  a 
most  lovely  day  it  was  for  it,  sunny,  still,  cool  but  not 
cold.  A  fortnight  ago  the  Germans  had  been  at  P.  and 
had  demanded  of  the  cure  the  keys  of  the  church  tower 
that  they  might  mount  a  maxim  gun  at  the  top.  He 
tried  to  explain  that  the  sexton  in  the  village  had  the 
keys,  but  they  would  not  listen,  put  him  up  against  the 
wall,  and  shot  him. 

As  we  marched  we  had  to  stop  to  let  a  very  long  line 
of  French  African  cavalry  go  by  (Moroccans);  pretty 
wild  looking,  but  fiercely  picturesque. 

The  country  here  is  absolutely  flat.  Not  beautiful, 
but  homely  and  prosperous-looking,  and  there  are  de- 
lightful churches,  farms,  cottages  and  windmills,  the 
latter  of  this  sort  {Sketch). 

Long  after  dark  we  reached  our  billet,  the  farm  at- 
tached to  a  huge  lunatic  asylum. 

/  slept  in  the  asylum  as  the  guest  of  the  director: 
and  have  never  been  so  well-lodged  during  the  campaign. 


64         John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

The  main  body  of  the  asylum  is  Hke  a  really  beautiful 
palace,  the  director's  quarters  constitute  a  large  separate 
block  like  a  good  country  house:  and  the  staircases, 
corridors,  rooms,  etc.,  all  very  fine  and  also  very  con- 
venient. The  park  is  lovely,  and  it  contains  isolated 
chalets  for  some  of  the  rich  patients,  who  pay  ^^500  a  year 
each. 

The  director  is  a  most  kind,  genial  man,  and  his  wife 
and  children  charming.  In  charge  of  the  eighteen 
hundred  patients  are  seventy  nuns. 


15  Field  Ambulance y  Expeditionary  Force 

6  P.M.,  November  2,  1914 

I  AM  writing  this  in  a  priest's  house  (while  the  priest 
eats  his  supper),  with  the  priest's  pen  (which  is  horrible), 
because  I  have  the  opportunity,  not  because  I  have 
anything  special  to  say,  seeing  that  I  wrote  to  you  this 
morning.  But  very  likely  we  shall  be  marching  to- 
morrow, and  I  write  when  I  get  a  chance. 

I  hope  you  will  not  judge  of  my  health  by  my  writing, 
and  think  it  in  a  feeble  state  when  the  writing  is  like 
this  —  it  all  depends  on  the  pen. 

My  health  is  quite  excellent,  and  no  wonder,  seeing 
what  a  lot  I  eat,  and  that  I  digest  it  all  perfectly. 

The  priest  in  whose  house  I  write  is  the  chaplain  of 
the  lunatic  asylum  where  I  slept  last  night:  he  is  a  nice 
man,  kind  and  courteous,  but  rather  Flemish,  and  when 
he  talks  to  his  servant  I  can't  understand  much.  All 
the  same  we  are  still  in  France,  so  far.  The  director 
of  the  asylum  gave  me  some  charming  picture  post- 
cards of  the  place  this  morning,  and  when  you  see  them 
you  will  say  they  are  very  pretty. 

This  morning  I  went  over  much  of  the  asylum  with 
him,  and  it  is  really  beautiful  —  like  a  French  palace 
in  a  beautiful  *'parc"  —  not  park. 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother         65 

I  received  this  cheque  just  after  I  had  given  in  my 
letter  to  you  this  morning  and  so  I  send  it  on  to  you 
in  a  postscript. 

Bert  will  always  get  any  cheque  cashed  for  you,  and 
with  this  one  you  can  pay  some  wages. 

I  also  received  a  dear,  but  rather  sad  letter  from  you 
in  which  you  seem  to  think  I  was  cross  with  you  for 
wanting  me  home:  indeed  I  was  not.  I  think  it  most 
natural  you  should  want  me  home,  and  most  just,  as 
you  may  be  sure  it  is  where  I  would  like  to  be:  indeed, 
from  the  beginning  to  now  you  have  been  quite  splendid, 
and  no  one  could  have  been  more  self-sacrificing  and 
good. 

15  Field  Ambulance y  Expeditionary  Force 

November  4,  1914 

This  will  really  be  a  short  letter;  because  to  make 
it  so  will  be  my  only  chance  of  getting  it  off  by  this  mail. 

I  have  been  writing  all  morning,  chiefly  to  thank 
people  who  have  sent  large  parcels  of  things  for  the  men: 
and  now  the  post-orderly  will  be  off  in  a  few  minutes. 

We  are  still  in  the  same  place,  resting,  and  I  still 
sleep  in  the  Director's  Mansion  of  the  Lunatic  Asylum, 

Yesterday  we  saw  a  whole  community  of  Belgian 
nuns,  evicted  from  their  convent,  coming  in  over  the 
frontier  each  carrying  the  little  bundle  that  was  her  all; 
it  gave  a  peculiar  impression  of  sadness  and  war-ruin 
to  see  these  poor,  orderly  creatures,  whose  lives  are 
habitually  so  retired  and  private,  tramping  along  in  the 
confusion  of  a  road  which  had  three  columns  of  troops 
(Hussars,  baggage-trains,  artillery)  blocking  it,  amidst 
all  the  noise,  shouts,  jingle  of  harness  and  accoutrements, 
etc. 

I  walked  into  the  town  —  it  is  close  to  —  yesterday, 
and  saw  the  jewellers'  windows  filled  with  the  empty 
cases  out  of  which  the  Germans  have  taken  everything  — 
watches,  bracelets,  rings  —  every  single  thing. 


(id         'John  AyscougV s  Letters  to  his  Mother 

I  saw  Gillingham  again,  and  Colonel  Boyle  (who  used 
to  command  the  Munsters  at  Tidworth)  he  jumped  ofF 
his  horse  and  had  a  talk.  He  said,  "You  look  a  thousand 
times  better  than  /  ever  saw  you.     War  evidently  suits 

you. 

He  is  on  the  Staff  here.  I  got  quite  a  charming  letter 
from  the  Bishop  yesterday  —  no  allusion  in  it  to  yours 
to  him.  I  don't  believe  you  will  find  the  increased 
deafness  permanent;  I  got  awfully  deaf  a  month  ago, 
and  now  it  is  better  again.  Foggy,  damp  weather  always 
increases  deafness. 

15  Field  Ambulance y  Expeditionary  Force 

November  6,  1914 

We  are  still  at  B.  with  our  men  billeted  at  the  farm 
of  the  asylum;  and  the  photograph  I  enclose  represents 
me  surrounded  by  a  little  group  of  Catholics  to  whom  I 
have  just  been  giving  crucifixes,  medals,  rosaries,  etc. 
(The  dog  is  not  my  dog.)  You  will  see  my  servant  next 
to  myself,  and  a  French  soldier  next  but  one  to  him. 

A  French  photographer  saw  the  men  around  me,  and 
asked  to  be  allowed  to  "chronicle"  the  group. 

He  sent  me  this  proof  and  I  thought  you  would  like  it. 

Yesterday  I  went  into  B.  (not  the  B.  we  were  at  last 
week)  and  on  the  way  met  a  Captain  Dunlop  of  the 
Headquarters  St?ff  of  this  Division.  He  stopped  and 
kept  me  talking  three  quarters  of  an  hour;  .  .  .  then 
the  Fourth  Dragoon  Guards,  from  Tidworth,  came  riding 
by,  and  some  of  my  own  boys  nearly  skipped  out  of  their 
saddles  with  joy  at  seeing  their  old  friend  and  father 
again.  One  of  them,  a  very  nice  fellow  called  Doyle, 
his  comrades  told  me,  was  being  recommended  for  the 
Victoria  Cross  for  splendid  gallantry  and  saving  of  several 
lives  the  day  before.  Then  the  Duke  of  Wellington's 
came   by  —  which   was    at   Tidworth    four   years    ago  — 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother         6y 

and  a  lot  of  them  also  came  running  up  with  smiles  to 
talk  and  shake  hands  and  wish  good  luck. 

At  last  I  got  into  B.  It  is  a  town  of  12,000  inhabitants 
(doubled  now  by  the  soldier  population)  with  a  long, 
open  market-place,  a  quaint  belfry  on  the  town  hall,  and 
a  fine  church  behind  the  town  hall:  then  I  came  home, 
as  it  was  raining,  and  wrote  letters  to  George  Shackel, 
Lady  O'Conor,  Cardinal  Gasquet,  etc. 

The  chaplain  of  the  asylum  lets  me  use  his  study  as 
my  writing-room:    and  it  is  a  great  convenience. 

Please  do  not  think,  my  dear,  that  I  was  cross  or  at 
all  surprised  at  your  wanting  me  back:  I  think  it  exactly 
what  you  should  want;  and  I  can  only  pat  you  on  the 
back  for  your  excellent  courage  and  patience  all  this 
time.  ... 


November  6,  1914 

Postscript:  We  are  all  moving  off,  and  (of  course) 
suddenly,  as  all  our  moves  are.  We  may  dawdle  away 
ever  so  long  in  a  place,  but  our  move,  when  it  comes, 
always  comes  suddenly. 

I  don't  know,  of  course,  where  we  go,  or  how  long  we 
may  be  on  this  march;  if  long,  you  will  hear  nothing 
for  a  corresponding  time. 

I  saw  Major  Newbigging  (is  he  Major  or  Captain?  — 
I  forget)  yesterday  and  had  a  chat.  He  looked  extremely 
well  as  I  think  we  all  do.  He  enquired  for  you  with  great 
regard.     I  am  terribly  sorry  for  the  poor  Antrobuses. 


{_Field  Cartfl 

November  9,  19 14 
I  AM  quite  well. 
I  have  received  your  letter. 
Letter  follows  at  first  opportunity. 


68         John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

15  Field  Ambulance,  Expeditionary  Force 

November  10,  1914 

The  field  postman  is  just  going,  so  I  can  only  put  in 
a  very  short  line  to  say  I  am,  as  I  was  yesterday,  alive 
and  very  well.  The  natural  result  of  eating  very  well 
for  three  months  is  that  I  am  grown  fat,  which  doesn't 
please  me  at  all. 

This  is  the  nastiest  billet  we  have  had:  a  small  and 
very  dirty  farm  (about  half  the  size  of  the  place  where 
Ewence,  our  milkman,  lives)  with  two  hundred  men 
crammed  into  it.  Of  course  no  sanitary  arrangements; 
but  dung  heaps  all  round.  I  share  a  room  about  five 
feet  by  seven  with  two  other  senior  officers;  when  it  is 
time  to  get  up  I  go  out  and  wash  and  dress  in  a  very 
dirty  stable.  Yesterday  afternoon  I  went  for  a  walk 
with  one  of  our  officers,  but  I  shall  refuse  another  time, 
for  he  talked  "war"  the  whole  time,  and  I'm  sick  of  it. 
Fancy  for  three  months  never  having  any  subject  but 
one  discussed,  at  meals,  at  any  time! 

/  find  Flemish  very  easy  to  tmderstaiid  though  hideous 
to  the  ear,  a  sort  of  unshaped,  uncouth  English. 

The  country  is  as  flat  as  the  people,  and  as  dull,  but 
rather  homely  in  its  dun-coloured  November  atmosphere. 

I  don't  call  this  a  letter  at  all,  but  still  it  will  show 
you  I  am  alive  and  well. 

Quite  a  big  mail  has  just  come  in  for  me,  and  the  other 
mail  is  just  going  out.  So  I  can  write  the  merest  word 
of  "How  do  you  do?" 

I  heard  from  you  (two  letters:  November  9th  and  12th), 
Christie,  Alice,  W.  Gater,  the  Duchess  of  Wellington, 
the  Bishop,  Lady  Antrobus,  Mr.  Huntington,  etc. 

I  enclose  the  Bishop's  letter. 

I  was  so  glad  to  see  the  congratulatory  letter  of  thanks 
from  the  Friends  of  the  Poor;  no  wonder  you  are  proud 
of  it. 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother         6g 

15  Field  Ambulance y  Expeditionary  Force 

November  12,  1914 

Again  I  must  begin  my  letter  by  saying  that  I  have 
nothing  to  put  into  it,  except  my  love  and  the  assurance 
that  I  am  very  well. 

We  are  still  squeezed  into  this  miserable  little  Flemish 
farm  (which  is  no  more  than  an  English  cottage)  and 
still  idle.  Of  course  there  are  heaps  of  wounded,  but 
there  are  now  so  many  motor  ambulances  out  here,  that 
run  direct  down  to  the  "  rail-head,"  that  the  Field  Ambu- 
lance stage  is  apt  to  be  skipped  altogether. 

To-day  it  is  bright  and  clear,  but  there  is  a  tearing 
wind,  very  cold,  and  not  a  dry  wind,  either.  In  the 
night  it  thundered,  lightened,  and  hailed:  and  at  the 
same  time  the  sky  was  lit  up  by  the  blaze  of  a  couple  of 
burning  villages.  The  artillery  fire,  of  course,  never 
stops:  very,  very  rarely  during  three  months  has  one 
ever  been  without  it,  day  or  night,  as  the  dull  back- 
ground of  sound  to  every  other. 

Yesterday  morning  I  walked  up  the  road  to  watch 
them  shelling  D.,  a  village  three  miles  from  here,  with 
two  fine  steeples:  it  was  obvious  the  Germans  were 
training  on  them;    it  is  always  the  churches  they  aim  at. 

This  region  is  crammed  with  troops,  English,  French, 
and  Belgian:  but  above  all  with  French,  and  every  little 
farmhouse  is  crammed  with  them,  too.   .   .  . 

The  people  are  ugly,  lumpish,  and  pudding-faced, 
and  their  language  is  enough  to  disgust  a  corn-crake. 
All  this  complaining  tone  comes  from  the  annoyance  one 
feels  at  having  nothing  to  do,  and  having  one's  enforced 
leisure  coincide  with  a  place  where  there  is  nothing  on 
earth  to  do  or  see.  When  I  get  home  and  come  to  tell 
you  of  the  places  I  have  been  at  you  will  find  how  few 
were  places  of  special  mterest;  those  we  have  been  near, 
but  the  fortunes  of  war  have  either  kept  us  just  away 
from  them,  or  hustled  us  through  them. 


70         John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

Thus  we  have  been  through  Rouen,  Amiens,  Cambrai, 
St.  Quentin,  etc.,  and  quite  near  Soissons,  Rheims,  Lille, 
etc.,  but  never  at  them. 

I  wonder  if  you  think  I  am  still  wearing  the  very  thin 
suit  I  came  out  in?  I  am  not,  but  am  wearing  a  thick 
suit  made  by  St^de  and  Gerrish  and  sent  out  here:  and 
boots  like  this  {sketch)  made  of  rubber  and  reaching  up  to 
the  knee.  So  one's  feet  are  always  dry.  Of  course  I 
don't  march  in  them.  They  also  come  from  Salisbury, 
made  there,  and  sent  out  here. 

Do  you  wonder  if  we  ever  get  a  bath?  Those  of  us 
who  were  not  at  Bethune  have  hardly  had  any.  During 
the  three  months'  war  I  have  had  five!  !  on  an  average 
one  every  three  weeks.  How  I  long  for  a  daily  bath, 
as  a  matter  of  course. 

The  place  where  I  stayed  in  the  lunatic  asylum  was 
called  Bailleul:  one  wing  of  it  was  joined  to  the  other 
by  a  glass  corridor  about  one  hundred  yards  long  filled 
with  the  most  glorious  chrysanthemums;  I  counted 
one  hundred  and  ninety-seven,  each  in  its  own  big  pot. 

The  farm  which  had  been  a  Preceptory  of  Knights 
Templars  where  we  stayed  in  September  was  called  Mont 
de  Soissons.  The  chateau  of  Comte  de  Montesquiou- 
Fezenzac,  where  I  had  Mass  in  the  ruins,  is  called  Long- 
point.  There  is  no  objection  to  giving  you  these  names 
now. 

15  Field  Ambulance,  Expeditionary  Force 

November  18,  19 14 

I  HAVE  just  written  to  Sir  Ian  Hamilton,  the  Duchess 
of  Wellington,  Lady  Antrobus,  Sir  Edmund  Antrobus, 
and  three  others;  .  .  .  and  the  mail  is  going  out  very 
soon,  so  I  can  only  send  you  a  mere  bulletin  to  say  I'm 
all  right  —  as  I  am,  in  spite  of  the  cold. 

We  woke  to  a  white  and  frozen  world  this  morning; 
then  came  sun;  then  snow;  now  sun  again.  We  have 
no  fires,  and  we  can't  shut  the  windows,  as  the  number  of 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother         71 

us  is  so  great  for  the  two  tiny  rooms.  One's  feet  are 
always  cold,  and  that  gives  one  a  headache.  But  — 
Well,  it  is  war,  and  one  must  expect  discomforts. 

The  noise  of  the  battle  was  so  furious  during  the  night, 
and  so  near,  one  could  not  sleep  much:  but  I  think  our 
affairs  are  going  very  well. 

You  would  not  believe  how  entirely  unconcerned  one 
is  by  an  incessant  artillery  fire,  whose  mere  noise  keeps 
one  awake;    it  is  a  mere  matter  of  habit. 

Some  one  has  just  sent  me  a  nice  present  of  good  things 
from  Fortnum  and  Mason's  —  some  wounded  officer  gone 
home,  I  expect,  to  whom  /  gave  good  things  over  here. 


15  Field  Ambulance^  Expeditionary  Force 

November  20,  1914 

Yesterday  I  did  not  write  to  you,  the  first  day  I  have 
skipped  when  I  had  the  chance.  But  directly  after 
breakfast  I  went  out,  meaning  only  to  stay  out  for  half 
an  hour;  instead  of  which  I  only  got  back  at  12.30,  and 
found  that  the  mail  had  left. 

I  walked  to  R.,  the  nearest  village,  about  one  and  a 
half  miles  from  here,  but  along  a  road  so  blocked  by 
artillery  train,  and  so  churned  up  with  mud  two  feet 
deep,  that  it  took  me  quite  a  long  time  to  get  there. 
Besides,  I  had  to  stop  fifty  times  on  the  way  to  chat 
with  French  or  Belgian  soldiers;  they  seem  to  know  me 
now,  and  are  always  demanding  medals,  etc.  At  R. 
the  whole  village  was,  as  it  has  been  ever  since  we  came, 
crowded  with  French  troops :  and  a  long  English  artillery- 
train  was  going  slowly  through:  so  I  stood  still  to  chat 
with  a  young  French  chasseur-a-pied  from  Dijon  with 
whom  I  was  quite  an  old  friend  before  we  parted.  It 
was  then  snowing  hard,  so  I  went  into  the  church  for 
shelter:  I  found  a  whole  French  regiment  bivouacked 
in  it.     It  made  a  most  picturesque  scene:    the  church 


72         John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

is  old  and  quaint,  with  aisles,  side-chapels,  etc. :  so  that 
it  affords  picturesque  perspectives  —  the  men's  rifles 
were  stacked  in  front  of  statues,  on  the  steps  of  the 
altars;  the  men  themselves  sitting,  l3^ing,  standing,  in 
groups  everywhere. 

Presently  there  was  another  group,  specially  large  and 
ever  increasing  in  numbers,  scores  and  scores  of  soldiers, 
crowding  in  upon  an  elderly  white-headed  priest  from 
whom  they  were  getting  medals,  scapulars,  rosaries, 
crucifixes,  etc.  I  am  very  fond  of  all  soldiers,  but  really 
I  love  the  French  ones.  .  .  . 

The  flat  Flemish  landscape  was  looking  beautiful  as 
I  came  home:  now  it  looks  exquisite  —  deep  in  glistening 
snow,  under  a  brilliant  sun.  The  mud  has  frozen  hard 
in  the  night,  and  the  roads  are  passable  if  only  the  sun 
does  not  thaw  them. 

Can  you  picture  me^  in  the  last  half  of  November,  in 
a  house  with  stone  floors,  no  carpets,  no  fires,  no  beds, 
only  one's  rugs,  deep  snow  outside,  and  hard  frost? 
Yet  really  I  feel  the  cold  very  little,  and  once  I  go  to 
"bed,"  not  at  all. 

I  get  letters  from  you  now  nearly  every  day,  and  you 
seem  to  be  getting  plenty  from  me. 


15  Field  Ambulance y  Expeditionary  Force 

At  a  Convent  of  Sisters  of  Charity 
Sunday,  November  22,  1914 

We  left  our  Flemish  dunghill  yesterday  at  eleven,  and 
are  now  in  very  different  quarters.  However,  to  carry 
on  my  diary  from  day  to  day  —  on  Friday  afternoon, 
the  day  before  yesterday,  several  of  us  went  for  a  really 
delightful  walk.  The  snow  was  everywhere,  and  there 
was  the  peculiar  exquisite  mist  that  goes  with  snow:  the 
sun  was  brilliant,  and  the  distances,  in  that  level  land, 
were  far  off,   and   melted  out  of  fields   and   sky  in  equal 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother         73 

parts.  Our  little  party  consisted  of  the  fellows  I  like  best 
in  the  Field  Ambulance,  chief  of  whom  is  a  young  officer 
called  Helm.  Poor  fellow,  he  is  not  long  married  and  he 
has  been  in  almost  perpetual  danger  ever  since  the  start: 
attached  to  a  regiment  every  officer  of  which  who  came  out 
with  him  has  been  killed,  or  sent  home  wounded,  or 
taken  prisoner  by  the  enemy. 

Well,  we  walked  up  to  the  firing  line,  and  had  quite 
an  interesting  time  watching  some  big  guns  of  ours, 
sixty-pounders,  firing  on  the  enemy.  A  funny  sort  of 
"object"  for  an  afternoon's  walk,  eh? 

We  went  for  another  walk  the  moment  after  breakfast 
yesterday  (Saturday)  and  when  we  got  back  found  the 
"unit"  all  ready  to  march. 

The  march  was  charming:  not  long  and  very  pictur- 
esque: one  felt  like  a  man  in  a  war-picture:  the  snow- 
landscape:  the  long  lines  of  troops,  waggons,  guns,  limbers; 
the  cottages  so  like  our  own;  farmyards  with  somber 
blue  groups  of  French  soldiers  round  their  fires.  .  .  . 

Out  of  the  flat  Flemish  fields  we  bore  up  a  long,  low 
hill,  wooded,  v/ith  a  windmill  on  its  crown  —  on  the  top 
one  of  our  fellows  photographed  me,  with  one  leg  in 
Belgium  and  one  in  France;  a  group  of  French  soldiers 
on  my  left. 

I  am  so  glad  to  be  again  in  France.  .  .  . 

About  four  o'clock  we  reached  this  village:  and  our 
men  are  billeted  in  the  village:  we  are  in  a  convent. 
Most  awfully  comfortable.  We  have  a  sitting-room  with 
a  fire;  excellent  beds;  real  beds  in  bedsteads;  and  the 
bosses  (I,  and  the  three  senior  officers)  have  rooms  to 
ourselves. 

I  HAVE  A  HOT-WATER  BOTTLE!  !  ! 

The  nuns  are  quite  overcome  by  the  honour  of  having 
a  "Monseigneur"  in  their  house,  and  nearly  cry  at  the 
idea  of  my  having  had  to  sleep  on  the  floor,  and  wash 
myself  out  of  an  empty  beef-can,  and  so  on. 

I  went  straight  to  the  church  to  arrange  for  Mass  and 


74         John  AyscougV s  Letters  to  his  Mother 

also  to  hear  confessions:    the  church  is  pretty,  and  quite 
smart,  and  well-tended,  and  prosperous. 

I  am  being  violently  urged  to  go  out.  ...  So  good- 
bye. 

15  Field  Ambulance^  Expeditionary  Force 

Monday^  November  23,  1914 

My  letter  of  yesterday  trailed  off  into  incoherence 
because  two  young  officers  were  asking  me  every  thirty 
seconds  to  be  quick  and  finish  it  and  come  out  for  a  walk. 
I  was  writing  such  nonsense  that  I  gave  it  up  at  last  and 
went.  It  was  really  lovely:  the  landscape  exquisite 
and  homely,  like  an  old-fashioned  Christmas-card:  bril- 
liant sunshine  over  the  glittering  white  fields,  and  an 
air  like  iced  champagne. 

After  luncheon  we  walked  again  —  to  B.,  the  place 
where  I  was  lodged  in  the  lunatic  asylum.  I  took  my 
two  companions  to  call  on  the  Director  and  we  went  over 
the  place  again. 

When  I  got  back,  there  was  a  long  letter  from  Mrs. 
Drummond  enclosing  an  excellent  one  from  Dr.  Fison 
to  her,  as  also  one  from  Lady  Kenmare.  .  .  . 

15  Field  Ambulance^  Expeditionary  Force 

Wednesday,  November  25,  191 4 

I  WROTE  you  a  long  letter  last  night  which  will  be 
posted  in  London  this  afternoon.  You  will  receive  it 
to-morrow. 

I  have  just  received  a  jubilant  letter  from  Christie  — 
she  and  you  had  just  heard  that  I  am  coming  home  soon. 
Last  night  the  CO.  also  went  home  on  leave:  he  made  a 
little  speech  after  dinner,  full  of  praise  of  my  work  and 
my  influence,  and  saying  that  I  should  command  the 
unit  better  chan  himself!  He  thanked  me  again  in  private 
for  my  "wonderful  and  splendid"  influence  here. 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother         75 

Mind  you,  these  officers  are  almost  all  Ulster  Protes- 
tants who  came  out  here  from  Carsondom,  so  it  really 
is  rather  a  triumph  to  have  conciliated  their  good  will 
and  good  opinion. 

There  are  about  ten  officers  talking  at  the  top  of  their 
voices,  and  I  really  can't  write. 


15  Field  Ambula7ice,  Expeditionary  Force 

November  25,  1914 

Sir  Horace  Smith-Dorrien  has  just  been  to  see  me:  a 
great  honour  from  the  Commander-in-Chief  of  the  Army 
Corps  to  a  humble  chaplain:  and  he  was  full  of  most 
friendly  cordiality  and  kindness.  He  came  chiefly  to 
tell  me  that  he  was  asking  for  a  special  recognition  of 
my  services  —  I  haven't  an  idea  what.  I  write  to  tell 
you  because  I  know  it  will  please  you. 

This  afternoon  we  —  three  of  us  —  walked  into  B. 
where  Headquarters  are.  One  of  them  had  to  see  the 
Surgeon-General.  He  said  to  him:  "I  see  you  came  in 
with  Monsignor;  he  is  one  of  our  great  men!"  Sir 
Horace  said  he  had  asked  his  wife  to  go  out  and  tell 
you  how  General  Porter  (this  very  Surgeon-General) 
had  spoken  to  him  of  my  work  at  Eethune. 

Then  I  asked  the  other  fellows  to  w^ait  a  minute  while 
I  went  and  said  my  prayers  for  a  minute  or  two  in  the 
church:  but  they  followed,  and  I  explained  it  all  to  them. 
When  we  got  outside  one  of  them  said,  "I  shall  always, 
when  the  day  month  before  Christmas  comes,  remember 
how  we  stood  in  that  church  and  you  talked  to  us." 
They  are  all  so  nice  and  respectful  to  me  and  the  religion 
I  represent. 

Last  night  the  C.  O.  in  his  little  speech  said  "Monsig- 
nor's  presence  among  us  has  taught  us  all  a  wider-minded 
charity  like  his  own,  and  a  deeper  respect  for  the  great 
Church  he  serves."     So  you  see,  my  time  among  them 


'j^^         John  Ayscough^s  Letters  to  his  Mother 

has  not  been  wasted.  You  were  asked  to  bear  a  great 
trial,  and  I  know  it  will  repay  you  to  think  that  your 
sacrifice  has  not  been  idle:  and  also,  I  think,  you  will 
understand  better  from  all  this  how  reluctant  I  was  to 
seem  eager  to  run  home  from  my  work  and  place  here. 
As  it  is  I  go  with  a  clear  conscience,  feeling  that  I  owe  my 
duty  to  yoii  now,  and  that  a  younger  man,  fresh  to  the 
work,  can  do  it  better  now  than  I  could.  The  war  is 
a  great  strain,  and  one  grows  stale,  and  new  blood  is 
wanted.  As  a  matter  of  fact  viany  of  the  Generals 
have  been  relieved,  not  because  they  were  wounded,  or 
incapable,  but  simply  because  the  strain  was  telling  and 
they  were  growing  stale. 

This  is  not  like  any  previous  war;  those  who  were  in 
South  Africa  say  the  latter  was  a  picnic  compared  with 
this,  this  is  so  vast  and  so  terrible.  And  no  one  has 
done  better  in  it,  or  made  a  greater  name  than  Sir  Horace 
Smith-Dorrien,  so  that  we  Sahsbury  Plainers  may  be 
proud  of  him.  He  has  a  very  warm  and  generous  heart: 
and  all  here  who  have  come  in  touch  with  him  are  en- 
thusiastic about  him. 

Really  this  letter  should  be  to  Christie;  it  is  her  turn; 
but  I  thought  you  would  not  like  to  hear  these  little 
chips  of  gossip  at  second  hand :   so  she  must  not  mind. 

Our  wounded  bear  the  most  terrible  wounds  without 
a  cry  or  a  complaint,  and  nothing  has  struck  me  more 
than  the  heroic  patience  of  them  all.  I  have  myself 
helped  countless  English  soldiers,  Protestant  as  well  as 
Catholic,  simply  shattered  to  pieces,  who  have  talked 
and  laughed  as  if  they  were  in  bed  with  a  chilblain. 
Their  heroism  is  unspeakable. 


John  Ayscough^s  Letters  to  his  Mother         77 

15  Field  Ambulance,  Expeditionary  Force 

November  27,  1914 

I  HAD  a  letter  from  you  this  morning,  dated  Novem- 
ber 2ist,  in  which  you  say  nought  of  my  return,  though 
Christie,  in  her  letter  which  reached  me  the  day  before 
yesterday,  writes  jubilantly  of  it.  It  has  been  arranged 
for  and  I  am  expecting  the  official  order  to  return  at  any 
moment  now.  I  shall  telegraph  from  the  first  English 
post  office  I  see  to  tell  you  I  am  on  English  soil:  but 
must,  I  think,  stop  in  London  one  night,  or  perhaps  two, 
on  official  business. 

We  are  all  just  off  to  walk  to  a  Cistercian  monastery 
that  these  officers  are  very  keen  to  see. 

Most  of  the  billy  looking  letters  you  sent  on  prove 
to  be  circulars  or  requests  for  Christmas  orders  from  my 
old  tradesmen. 

Field  postman  waiting. 


15  Field  Ambulance,  Expeditionary  Force 

I  HOPE  this  particular  letter  will  reach  you  quicker 
than  usual,  not  because  of  its  importance,  for  it  has  none 
in  particular,  but  because  I  am  giving  it  to  someone  to 
post  in  London  to-morrow  or  the  day  after.  It  is  quite 
true  Sir  Horace  Smith-Dorrien  was  on  leave  in  England, 
and  all  the  officers  of  this  Army  are  getting  six  days' 
leave  to  England.  /  am  not  asking  for  any  because  it 
is  pretty  certain  that  I  shall  be  going  home  altogether  in 
a  week  or  two. 

Mrs.  Drummond  by  no  means  neglected  your  letter 
to  her  —  but  worked  very  hard  about  it.  If  I  went 
home  I  should  probably  remain  two  or  three  nights  in 
London  to  save  another  journey  up  there  immediately. 
I  must  see  the  Cardinal  and  tell  him  about  things  here; 


78         John  Ayscough^s  Letters  to  his  Mother 

I  must  also  see  some  people  at  the  War  Office:  and  want 
also  to  see  a  dentist,  for  I  have  been  bothered  all  the  time 
of  the  war  by  a  tooth  badly  broken,  with  the  nerve 
exposed.  Having  to  stay  in  London  I  shall  take  the 
opportunity  of  seeing  friends.  Lady  O'Conor,  the  Glen- 
conners,  etc. 

I  had  a  charming  letter  from  Lady  Glenconner  last 
night:  most  cordial  and  affectionate.  They  have  done 
their  share,  too,  for  the  war.  Bim,  the  eldest  boy,  only 
seventeen,  has  joined  the  Grenadier  Guards,  and  Chris- 
topher (only  fifteen)  is  on  a  man-of-war:  Lord  Glen- 
conner has  equipped,  and  is  bearing  the  whole  expense 
of,  a  hospital  at  Hull  for  two  hundred  and  fifty  patients; 
he  has  sent  out  an  armoured  train,  and  a  field  kitchen 
for  a  Scots  Regiment,  and  they  have  sent  all  their  motors 
out  here  and  kept  none  for  themselves.  She  speaks  so 
tenderly  about  you,  and  says,  "If  I  had  been  at  Wilsford 
I  should  have  gone  to  see  her  long  ago;  but  since  the  war 
began  I  have  not  been  near  it:  my  time  has  all  been 
spent  working  here  (in  London),  or  with  Christopher 
at  Weymouth,  where  his  ship  was  till  it  went  to  sea." 
They  have  Belgian  refugees  at  Wilsford.  I  think  her 
heart  is  sore  for  her  boys;  they  are  such  children  to  be 
fighting  for  their  country.  She  feels  the  death  of  her 
nephew,  Percy  Wyndham,  very  much.  I  know  he  was 
always  very  much  devoted  to  her. 

Lady  O'Conor's  box,  from  Fortnum  and  Mason,  duly 
reached  me  at  "Midden  Hall,"  and  I  must  write  and 
thank  her  now  I  know  whence  it  came. 

Lady  Glenconner  sends  me  warm  gloves,  a  woolly 
waistcoat,  socks,  etc.,  knitted  by  herself. 

She  makes  me  laugh  by  asking  me  when  the  war  is 
going  to  end!  I  tell  her  to  ask  the  Prime  Minister,  as 
he  is  her  brother-in-law.  We  are  no  longer  at  Midden 
Hall,  but  in  a  convent  of  Sisters  of  Charity  where  the 
nuns  spoil  us  all. 

We  have  each  of  us  an  excellent  bed,  and  I  a  com- 


John  AyscougV s  Letters  to  his  Mother        79 

fortable  room  all  to  myself.  And  this  change  is  all  the 
more  apropos  as  the  cold  has  been  bitter. 

We  are  no  longer  in  Belgium,  but  back  in  my  beloved 
France,  though  only  two  miles  from  the  frontier:  about 
two  miles,  too,  from  B.  where  the  lunatic  asylum  is. 

I  had  a  hot  bath  to-day  and  boiled  some  of  the  dirt 
off  myself — a  most  luxurious  bath  in  a  room  with  a 
fire  in  it!  Bert  wrote  me  a  charming  little  letter  which 
arrived  last  night;  mind  you  say  how  pleased  I  was  with 
it.  He  says,  "I  was  proud  to  read  Sir  John  French's 
dispatch  with  your  name  in  it  for  bravery  on  the  field: 
and  I  hope  you  will  let  your  humble  poor  servant  to  offer 
you  his  proud  congratulations;  and  may  God  bring  you 
soon  home  to  us  all,  safe  and  well,  who  all  miss  you 
very,  very  much." 

I  think  more  of  such  simple,  kindly  congratulations 
than  I  can  say.  The  same  mail  brought  me  two  dear 
letters  from  you.  You  need  never  fear  that  in  coming 
home  I  have  sacrificed  myself  for  your  sake.  I  feel  I 
have  done  my  "whack"  here;  and  now  I  feel  in  my 
conscience  free  to  think  of  home  and  you.  It  would  be 
different  if  we  were  in  the  midst  of  strenuous  work. 

Of  course,  when  it  comes  to  the  point,  I  shall  have 
regrets:  I  have  lived  so  long  with  these  good  comrades 
I  shall  be  unable  to  leave  them  without  feeling  sad  at  the 
parting  and  having  to  leave  them  out  here.  But  I  do 
feel  that  the  war  is  in  its  last  phase  and  please  God  all 
will  be  going  home  soon.  It  would  be  impossible  to 
exaggerate  the  kindness  they  have  shown  rre,  and  show 
me  now,  when  they  know  I  am  going.  They  all  say  I 
should  go,  and  might  well  have  gone  long  ago:  but  all 
say  how  they  will  miss  me.  To  live  together  for  over 
three  months  in  the  field  of  war  is  like  nothing  else, 
and  one  can  never  forget  it.  One  thought,  never  uttered, 
has  been  common  to  us  all,  the  longing  for  home,  and  for 
those  we  left  there:  God  knows  how  silent  it  has  often 
made  us. 


8o         John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

The  whole  thing  has  been  a  dream:  and  one  has  felt 
Hke  a  figure  in  a  dream,  or  a  man  in  a  picture,  a  picture 
of  poignant  meaning  hardly  realized  by  oneself. 

I  must  stop.  God  bless  you  all  and  may  He  in  His 
great  kindness  bring  me  soon  among  you  all. 


Authors^  Club,  2  Whitehall  Court,  S.W. 

5.30  P.M.,  December  2,  1914 

How  are  you?  I  had  an  excellent  breakfast  in  the 
train,  and  read  my  own  study  "An  Hour  of  the  Day" 
in  the  Month  —  and  I  liked  it  very  much ! 

I  went  straight  to  the  Cardinal  and  found  him  most 
cordial  and  nice.  He  kept  me  an  hour,  listening  with  the 
keenest  interest  and  appreciation  to  what  I  had  to  tell 
him  of  the  war.  Then  it  was  too  late  to  go  to  the  War 
Office  before  going  to  luncheon  at  Lady  O'Conor's;  so 
I  went  off  to  Sussex  Gardens  at  once. 

I  found  Mrs.  Wilfrid  Ward  there,  too,  up  for  the  day, 
and  two  of  Lady  O'Conor's  daughters.  They  would  not 
let  me  go  till  five,  and  we  had  a  charming  long  talk 
about  old  times  and  new.  Aubrey  Herbert  and  his  wife 
came  in,  and  added  to  the  interest  of  the  party. 

Poor  Mrs.  Ward!  Her  husband  is  going  for  the  winter 
to  America  to  lecture:  Herbert  going  off  to  India  with 
his  regiment  —  and  all  his  happy  Oxford  life  knocked 
out  of  his  grasp,  where  he  was  so  capable  of  distinction. 

At  four  o'clock  the  editor  of  The  Ti77ies  wanted  me  to  go 
and  see  him:    but  I  am  going  to-morrow  at  four  instead. 

I  hurried  back  here  to  write  this  little  letter  to  you 
lest  I  should  miss  the  country  post.  Lady  O'Conor's 
last  word  was,  "Mind  you  congratulate  dear  Mrs.  Brent 
from  me,  and  say  how  much  I  liked  getting  her  letters 
(I  shall  never  write  like  that  if  I  am  ever  eighty-five) 
and  how  glad  I  am  to  hear  she  is  getting  quite  well  again.  " 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother         8i 

Authors'  Club,  2  Whitehall  Court,  SJF 

December  3,  1914 

I  HAVE  been  dashing  about  all  day. 

1.  To  the  War  Office,  where  one  had  to  wait  ages  before 
seeing  anyone. 

2.  To  Vandyck  to  be  photographed:  he  kept  me  an 
hour  trying  all  sorts  of  positions. 

3.  To  see  the  Cardinal  again  at  Archbishop's  House 
by  appointment. 

4.  To  get  luncheon. 

5.  To  see  the  Editor  of  the  Times,  by  appointment,  in 
the  far  wilds  of  the  City. 

6.  Back  to  the  far  west  to  see  Bimbo  Tennant  — 
who  was  in  his  bath,  just  come  off  parade,  etc.  —  he 
came  down  to  the  hall  in  his  dressing-gown  and  we  had 
a  long  chat  there:  he  is  not  a  bit  the  Guardsman,  but 
just  the  same  delightful  boy  as  ever. 

I  gave  him  a  German  bayonet  and  he  was  delighted 
with  it. 

Lady  Glenconner  telegraphed  from  Wilsford  to  ask 
me  to  move  to  their  house,  but  I  told  Bimbo  I  was  going 
down  to  Winterbourne  to-morrow  and  should  not  leave 
my  present  quarters  for  the  one  night.  I  am  just  off  to 
see  Mrs.  Drummond  by  appointment. 

To-morrow  I  have  to  go  and  face  two  more  photog- 
raphers, and  see  the  Cardinal  again.  I  hope  to  catch 
the  3.30  and  to  reach  Salisbury  at  5:  which  would  bring 
me  to  Winterbourne  at  5.30  about. 

The  weather  is  excellent  here. 

Authors'  Club,  2  Whitehall  Court,  S.W. 

Monday 

My  guests  here  were  Lady  Glenconner  and  her  son 
Bimbo,   now   a   Guardsman:     (of  seventeen)    and   Lady 


82         John  AyscougV s  Letters  to  his  Mother 

O'Conor  and  her  daughter  Fearga.  Lady  Glenconner 
begged  me  to  come  there  to  dine  and  sleep  to  meet  Sir 
Edward  Grey,  the  Secretary  of  State  for  Foreign  Affairs, 
whom  I  have  always  wanted  to  know;  he  is  an  admirer 
of  my  books  and  I  am  always  hearing  about  him  from 
the  Glenconners. 

So  I  shall  sleep  up  here,  at  the  Glenconners,  to-night 
and  go  down  to-morrow  morning,  reaching  home  at  1.30: 
so  they  had  better  have  luncheon  at  1.30  or  1.45. 


II 

British  Expeditionary  Force 

Saturday^  February  13,  191 5 

I  can't  write  at  all  a  long  letter  this  morning,  as  I 
have  not  yet  reported  myself  to  the  General  here,  and 
must  do  so;  but  I  want  to  have  a  little  letter  in  my 
pocket  to  post  at  Headquarters,  so  I  must  write  before 
going  out. 

I  arrived  here  at  7.30  last  night.  The  journey  was 
very  comfortable,  and  I  was  glad  to  come  on  at  once. 
They  begged  me  to  understand  there  was  no  hurry  and 
that  I  need  only  come  on  when  it  suited  me.  But  when 
I'm  going  anywhere  I  like  to  get  to  my  journey's  end 
as  soon  as  possible. 

As  I  write,  every  time  I  lift  my  head  there  is  the  sea 
(dark  and  grey  to-day),  the  coast  line  of  white  cliffs, 
ships  passing  up  and  down  channel,  going  to  England 
and  coming  from  it  —  I  delight  in  it.  If  only  you  can 
make  yourself  content  without  me  for  a  bit,  I  shall  really 
enjoy  this  place  for  whatever  time  I  have  to  stay  here. 
Do  think  how  different  this  is  from  my  former  going 
away  —  then  it  was  to  share  in  all  the  unknown  dangers 
of  the  campaign,  and  its  hardships.  Here  we  are  as  safe 
as  you  are  on  Salisbury  Plain,  and  I  am  simply  in  luxury. 
I  shall  write  a  good  bit  here,  and  that  will  pass  the  time 
away. 

Saturday  Evening,  February  13,  191 5 

I  WROTE  to  you  this  morning  and  took  the  letter  up  to 
the  Base  Commandant  to  post.  I  wonder  how  long  it 
will  take  to  reach  you,  several  days  I  fear;  for  I  expect, 
though  we  are  within  two  hours  of  England,  that  our 

8? 


84         John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

letters  go  back  to  Rouen,  which  takes  one  day,  then  they 
go  down  to  Havre,  and  thence  to  London  to  the  War 
Office. 

I  found  them  very  civil  at  the  Base  Commandant's 
Office,  and  they  lent  me  a  motor  to  go  round  and  see  the 
various  troops  this  afternoon,  directly  after  luncheon  — 
it  really  was  civil,  as  they  only  have  two. 

Now  I  will  go  back  a  bit:  at  Rouen  I  went  to  see  the 
Cathedral,  the  Palais  de  Justice,  the  very  famous  Church 
of  St.  Ouen,  and  the  Church  of  St.  Maclou.  They  are 
all  quite  glorious;  in  the  Cathedral  I  saw  the  tombs  of 
some  of  our  ancestors,  the  Dukes  of  Normandy,  including 
Rollo;  and  thought  how  Jack  Whittaker  would  have 
adored  them. 

The  principal  streets  of  Rouen  are  fine,  modernized, 
and  full  of  smart  shops:  the  side-streets  very  curly  and 
picturesque  —  those  old  houses  in  the  picture  over  your 
bedroom  chimney-piece  are  in  one  of  them.  I  walked 
about  a  good  deal,  but  did  not  feel  in  the  lionising  humour 
a  bit;  and  I  was  really  glad  to  get  into  the  train  with  my 
book  and  opportunity  to  rest  and  be  without  bothers. 
You  have  no  idea  of  the  enormous  number  of  officials  I 
have  had  to  see  since  leaving  home  —  all  strangers,  to 
whom  I  had  to  explain  who  I  was  and  what  I  was  come 
for,  etc. :  most  tedious.  I  think  that  is  nearly  finished 
for  the  present.     Now  to  bring  my  letter  on  here  again: 

I  walked  to  the  Base  Commandant's  this  morning:  it 
is  perhaps  a  mile  away,  just  at  the  other  end  of  the  place: 
in  front  of  this  hotel  there  is  a  wide  stretch  of  smooth 
grass,  about  three  hundred  yards  broad,  and  over  a 
mile  long:  along  the  outer  edge  runs  a  paved  esplanade 
very  pleasant  to  walk  on,  and  beyond  that  the  shingles 
and  the  sea. 

I  told  you  it  was  grey  and  glowering  this  morning: 
but  just  as  I  went  out  the  sun  appeared,  and  it  has  been 
a  very  bright,  gusty  day,  the  sea  all  covered  with  white 
horses.     I  had  to  go  right  to  the  end  of  the  "plage": 


John  Ayscoiigh^s  Letters  to  his  Mother         85 

at  the  end,  on  a  steep  cliff,  is  the  old  castle:  up  a  hill  to 
the  left  the  Commandant's  Headquarters. 

Well,  in  the  car  I  drove  far  out  into  the  country,  and 
saw  six  different  lots  of  troops  (but  the  whole  garrison 
of  English  is  only  twelve  hundred,  and  I  don't  think 
there  are  a  hundred  Catholics:  whereas  at  Tidworth, 
etc.,  there  are  three  thousand).  I  saw  the  few  there 
were,  spoke  to  them  a  sort  of  little  sermon,  and  they 
were  immensely  nice,  so  glad  to  see  me,  and  so  gentle, 
loving,  and  respectful:  the  first  priest  they  had  spoken 
to  for  three  months.  I  am  going  out  to  give  some  of 
them  a  service  to-morrow  night. 

I  came  in  just  now,  had  tea,  and  am  writing  this.  I 
must  say  I  like  my  quarters,  but  I  can't  look  at  that  sea 
without  wanting  to  jump  over  it.  England  is  not  in 
sight,  but  very  nearly. 

Monday  evenings  February  15,  191 5 

How  I  wonder  how  you  are!  Since  the  letter  you 
wrote  on  the  very  day  I  left,  and  which  I  received  in 
London  on  Wednesday  last  (the  tenth)  I  have  not  heard; 
and,  of  course,  I  could  not  hear.  When  letters  do  begin 
to  come  I  shall  be  curious  to  see  how  long  they  take; 
probably  nearly  as  long  as  from  the  front  (though  if  this 
were  peace-time  you  would  get  a  letter  from  Dieppe 
the  morning  after  it  was  posted). 

Dieppe  is  quite  a  fascinating  little  place;  the  two 
churches  (fourteenth  century)  most  beautiful,  outside 
and  in. 

Saturday  afternoon  was  sunny  and  bright.  That 
night  a  very  strong  gale  came  on,  and  in  the  morning  I 
saw  a  very  wild  sea,  with  huge  waves,  from  my  window. 
This  is  a  rough  attempt  at  the  sort  of  thing  one  sees 
from  it:  Away  to  the  left  (west)  a  high  coast  of  tall 
white  cliffs  and  headlands;  in  front  the  flat  "plage  and 
digue,"  and  to  the  right  the  harbour  and  lighthouse,  etc. 
Thence  at  twelve  each  day  the  boat  goes  to  England, 


86         John  Ays  cough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

and  I  send  my  love  by  it  each  time,  though  it  doesn't 
know  anything  about  it. 

Yesterday  morning  I  said  Mass  at  St.  Remy,  one  of 
the  two  churches;  at  six  in  the  evening  I  motored  to 
St.  Aubyn  and  held  a  Httle,  very  informal  service  for  the 
Catholics  there  —  only  about  sixteen  of  them. 

I  have  my  own  little  table  in  one  of  the  big  windows  of 
the  dining-room,   in  full  view  of  the  sea.     The  food   is 

excellent.     I  wonder  what  sort  of  food  Mrs. is  giving 

you.  And  very  much  I  wonder  whether  Ver  got  his 
extension  of  leave,  and  whether  he  has  any  likelihood  of 
a  new  staff  appointment. 

You  have  probably  by  now  sent  for  the  Atlas  and 
looked  up  Dieppe  on  it:  if  so  you  will  realise  that  here 
we  are  nearly  as  far  from  the  fighting  as  you  are.  This 
afternoon  I  have  been  visiting  the  hospital  —  only  six 
Catholics  in  it,  no  wounded,  only  sick  —  influenza, 
colds,  etc.     It  all  seems  so  odd  after  the  front. 

One  of  the  patients  I  sat  talking  to  was  a  young  Mr. 

,  son  of  an  American  Admiral;    he  has  enlisted  in 

our  army:  quite  a  gentleman,  and  pleasant,  but  with 
the  most  appalling  stammer  I  ever  heard. 

I  shall  go  one  of  these  days  to  Arques:  it  is  quite  near, 
and  the  ruined  castle  was  the  cradle  of  the  Drews;  there 
Drogo  was  born,  his  father  William  being  Comte  d'Arques. 

If  you  were  ten  years  younger  I  should  just  tell  you  to 
come  over  here:  but  you  could  not  stand  the  journey, 
and  especially  the  sea-passage,  which  is  rather  rough  and 
bad,  the  boats  being  very  small  and  roily.  So  I  hope 
you  have  not  had  any  such  idea  in  your  mind,  and  the 
boat  starts  from  Folkestone,  a  very  long  journey  by 
rail  from  Salisbury. 

Now  I  will  stop. 

February  i6,  191 5 

I  HAVE  just  got  back  from  Arques;  the  castle  is  really 
enormously  interesting,  and  I  can't  tell  you  how  lovely 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother  87 

the  situation  is  —  a  terrible  climb  up  to  it,  but  the  view 
when  you  get  up  truly  splendid.  The  castle  was  a  very 
important  fortress,  and  would  interest  anyhoAy:  but  it 
certainly  is  more  interesting  to  us,  as  it  was  the  home  in 
childhood  of  Drogo,  whose  father  Guillaume,  Comte 
d'Arques,  built  it.  You  know  he  was  uncle  to  William 
the  Conqueror,  brother  of  William's  father,  Robert  the 
Devil,  and  himself  son  of  Duke  Richard  II  of  Normandy. 
William  the  Conqueror,  being  illegitimate,  his  uncle,  the 
other  William,  Count  of  Arques,  thought  he  had  more 
right  to  the  Norman  crown  and  fought  for  it,  but  lost. 
Afterwards  the  two  Williams  made  friends,  and  the 
Count  of  Arques  sent  his  sons  Walter  and  Drogo  to 
England  with  their  cousin. 

Richard  Coeur  de  Lion  owned  the  castle,  as  King 
Stephen  had  done;  and  there  King  John  held  captive 
his  niece  Eleanor  of  Brittany,  and  carried  her  off  thence 
to  another  prison  at  Cardiff. 

All  through  the  Middle  Ages  the  castle  was  important 
and  was  constantly  undergoing  sieges,  etc. 

I  did  not  expect  to  find  a  place  nearly  so  beautiful,  nor 
with  such  extensive  and  fine  ruins;  I  thoroughly  enjoyed 
my  pilgrimage  there. 

The  village  church,  far  beneath  the  feet  of  the  castle, 
is  very  beautiful,  but  of  a  date  long  subsequent  to  our 
family  connection  with  the  place. 

It  has  been  an  exquisite  day,  very  warm  and  sunny, 
and  an  amazing  contrast  to  the  day  before  yesterday. 
The  sea  is  smooth  and  creamy,  and  there  are  no  big 
waves  breaking  along  the  shore. 

February  17,  191 5 

This  will  be  a  very  short  and  dull  letter:  to-day  — 
Ash  Wednesday  —  has  been  another  day  of  wild  rain  and 
wind,  and  I  have  been  indoors  in  my  comfortable  room  a 
good  deal  of  it. 


88         John  AyscougFs  Letters  to  his  Mother 

I  went  out  early  to  say  Mass  at  St.  Jacques,  the  finest 
of  the  two  very  fine  churches  here.  There  are  really 
more  than  two,  but  the  others  are  quite  modern  and 
quite  uninteresting. 

There  is  a  small  party  of  EngHsh  naval  officers  in  this 
hotel  on  what  is  called  naval  transport  duty:  and  I 
talk  a  good  lot  to  them.  The  senior  of  them  is  called 
Captain  Benwell,  a  name  which  at  once  reminded  me  of 
the  broken-hearted  Captain  Benwell  in  Jane  Austen's 
"Persuasion,"  whose  broken  heart  Miss  Louisa  Musgrove 
mended  up  by  tumbling  down  the  steps  of  the  Cobb  at 
Lyme  Regis. 

The  Lieutenant  is  called  B.,  and  he  has  a  very  fine  eye: 
only  one  fine  one,  large  and  brown  and  liquid;  he  showed 
great  taste  in  the  purchase  of  it.  The  other  (a  very 
poor  match)  was  provided  by  nature,  and  is  small,  of  a 
muddy  colour,  and  looks  much  more  glassy  than  the  one 
which  really  is  glass.  He  manages  to  be  nice-looking, 
and  I  believe  some  one  will  fall  in  love  with  his  younger 
eye. 

The  third  is  called  — ,  and  he  is  in  an  awful  fright  of 
being  thought  Irish,  whereas,  he  carefully  explains,  his 
family  is  a  London  family.  Captain  Benwell  is  very  nice, 
pleasant  and  cordial.  He  knows  Malta,  Plymouth,  and 
Portsmouth  and  some  of  the  people  we  knew. 

We  are  all  wondering  whether  the  Germans  will  really 
do,  or  try  to  do  anything,  to-morrow,  the  i8th. 

I  wish  to  goodness  they  would  bring  their  fleet  out 
and  smack  at  us;   it  would  do  something  to  end  the  war. 

People  went  to-day  to  see  off  the  "Sussex,"  the  packet 
that  runs  to  England.  It  leaves  here  at  midday,  and  it 
ought  to  come  back  to-morrow,  but  of  course  it  may  be 
prevented.  No  letters  have  come  yet,  but  I  begin  now 
to  expect  them  every  day:  I  am  keen  to  know  how  you 
are.  You  must  keep  well  and  in  good  spirits:  at  all 
events  you  may  feel  sure  I  am  comfortable  and  safe. 

It  is  so  odd;  after  the  front,  to  be  splendidly  housed, 


John  AyscougV s  Letters  to  his  Mother         89 

with  excellent  beds,  food,  and  attendance,  and  as  much 
hot  water  as  one  wants  —  and  also  shops  to  buy  any- 
thing one  wants. 

I  purposely  brought  no  English  books  with  me,  as  I 
want  to  read  only  French  here  and  so  practice  and 
improve  myself. 

February  19,  191 5 

I  DID  not  write  last  night  because  the  letter  I  had 
written  the  night  before  had  not  left  for  England:  the 
mail-packet  for  England  did  not  sail,  nor  (I  believe) 
has  it  sailed  to-day.  The  above  address  does  not  mean 
that  I  am  in  a  different  place:  I  am  in  the  same  com- 
fortable quarters;  but  it  is  the  correct  military  address: 
and  you  had  better  use  it.  But  so  far  no  letters  have 
arrived,  from  you  or  anyone,  except  one  from  Sir  Ian 
Hamilton  written  on  the  tenth.  Of  course  the  German 
blockade  of  England  began  yesterday,  and  perhaps 
letters  will  arrive  rather  irregularly.  The  only  sign  of 
it  one  sees  here  is  a  patrol  of  torpedo-destroyers  guarding 
the  approaches  to  this  place. 

You  may  see  in  the  papers  of  to-day  the  account  of  a 
merchant  ship  towed  in  here  yesterday  (I  saw  it  brought 
in)  that  had  been  torpedoed  by  the  Germans.  It  did  not 
happen  in  this  region,  but  thirty  miles  away  in  the 
channel.     No  lives  were  lost. 

The  concierge  has  just  come  into  my  room  and  brought 
me  a  bundle  of  letters.  Two  very  cheery  and  bright 
ones  from  you,  dated  Sunday  and  Monday.  No  other 
letters,  though  you  mention  a  packet  of  twenty-three: 
no  doubt  they'll  turn  up.  I'm  so  glad  to  see  what  satis- 
faction it  gives  you  my  being  in  such  comfortable  and 
safe  quarters  —  poor  Alice  must  be  envious.  She,  I 
see  by  Christie's  letter,  is  by  this  time  (6.15  p.m.  Friday) 
back  with  you.  I  am  so  glad  of  that,  for  your  sake  and 
her  mother's  (and  poor  Togo's) ;   I  think  she  will  like  the 


90         John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

quietness  and  rest  of  our  house  after  the  noise  and  rush 
of  London. 

I  feel  ever  so  much  cheerier  since  hearing  from  you: 
I  could  not  help  being  anxious  till  I  did  hear,  and  evi- 
dently you  are  putting  a  good  heart  on  it.  Really  there 
is  so  much  to  be  thankful  for.  Here  one  feels  so  near 
home,  and  all  the  discomforts  and  strain  of  the  front 
are  absent. 

February  20,  191 5 

This  morning  I  received  about  thirty  letters,  twenty- 
three  in  one  envelope,  and  I  have  also  received  four 
parcels:  (i)  Universes;  (2)  shirts;  (3)  boots;  (4)  some 
shirts,  socks,  etc.,  for  soldiers. 

The  esplanade  on  the  sea  front  is  a  mile  long  and  is 
pleasant  walking,  always  dry  and  easy  to  the  feet.  I  have 
now  three  pairs  of  good  boots  besides  the  big  gum-boots. 
I  was  never  so  well  provided  for  for  years. 

I  received  a  very  cordial  letter  from  Gater  and  another 
from  Winifred;  the  latter  tells  me  poor  Sir  Edmund 
Antrobus  is  dead.  I  expect  my  poor  friend  Lady  A. 
will  feel  it  very  much,  though  not  in  the  same  way  she 
did  her  boy's  being  killed.  I  gather  from  Winifred's 
letter  that  you  have  the  bath-chair,  which  I  am  glad  of, 
as  now  you  can  get  out  whenever  a  fine  day  comes. 

I  am  the  only  chaplain  of  any  denomination  who  has 
been  mentioned  t-zvice  in  dispatches  during  this  war;  at 
least  I  am  told  so. 

I  must  stop  now  to  answer  some  of  those  other  letters. 

February  21,  191 5 

When  I  gave  you  the  number  of  our  army  post  office 
in  my  last  letter  I  left  out  S.     So  I  hasten  to  put  it  right. 

I  am  in  jumping  spirits,  having  just  seen  last  Thurs- 
day's paper  (February  i8th)  and  seen  my  name  in  the 
second   dispatch,   as  well   as  in  Sir  John   French's   first 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother         91 

dispatch.  It  is  something  to  get  one  mention;  but  to  be 
mentioned  in  both  his  dispatches  is  tremendous  luck. 

It  is  a  perfect  day  here  and  the  sea  looks  lovely  under 
the  bright  sunshine. 

This  morning  I  had  a  special  Mass  for  the  English 
troops  (eleven  of  them!)  —  in  a  side  chapel  of  St.  Jacques. 
It  was  rather  funny,  for  while  I  was  trying  to  make  them 
hear  me  preaching  in  a  very  low  voice  (not  to  disturb 
the  congregation  in  the  body  of  the  church)  they  were 
trying  7iot  to  hear  a  French  priest  with  a  voice  like  a  bull 
bellowing  a  sermon  about  twenty  feet  away. 

The  boat  went  again  last  night,  and  is  going  to-night, 
so  I  suppose  our  mails  will  become  regular  again, 

February  23,  191 5 

It  is  awfully  cold  here  to-day,  though  very  sunny  and 
bright:  a  fierce  north  wind,  and  of  course  we  stare  due 
north  over  the  sea.  It  looks  very  pretty;  sapphire, 
emerald,  amethyst,  all  mixed,  and  laced  with  strings  of 
pearls. 

There  is  hardly  anyone  in  this  hotel  now.  The  naval 
people  stay  on,  almost  all  the  rest  are  gone.  Did  you 
see  the  picture  of  me  in  the  Daily  Mail  of  yesterday.'' 
I  wonder  how  they  got  hold  of  that  old  portrait  when 
there  are  so  many  good  ones  .^ 

To-morrow  Alice  comes  back  to  you:  poor  dear,  she 
must  wish  her  soldier  was  safe  and  comfortable  at  Dieppe: 
all  the  same  this  soldier  would  rather  be  at  the  real  front. 
However,  I  heard  from  my  late  C.  O.  to-day,  and  he 
evidently  thinks  there  would  be  very  little  for  me  to  do 
up  there  at  present. 

I  must  go  to  the  hospital  and  shut  this  up. 

Wednesday,  February  24,  191 5 

It  is  4.30  P.M.  and  I  have  just  had  tea  and  a  letter 
from  you.     It  had  no  date,   but  it  enclosed   a  cutting 


92         John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

from  the  Globe  alluding  to  my  second  mention  in  dis- 
patches. 

I  am  so  thankful  and  glad  that  you  are  well,  and  that 
you  are  happy  at  my  being  in  good  and  safe  quarters. 

It  is  a  very  cold  day  here,  with  a  sleety  rain  and  a 
bitter  northeast  wind:  the  sea  outside  looks  very  angry 
and  grim,  like  our  foes  who  maraud  upon  it. 

It  is  bad  news  the  Russians  having  taken  such  a  knock, 
and  lost  so  terrible  a  number  of  prisoners.  But  you 
may  be  sure  it  will  buck  them  up  and  make  them  more 
than  ever  determined  to  get  their  own  back. 

I  always  wondered  what  those  Belgian  youths  were  doing 
at  Porton;  it  explains  why  they  hid  away  when  I  went 
to  see  them,  and  only  sent  out  the  old  one  to  talk  to  me. 

There  is  a  huge  barrack  here  devoted  entirely  to 
Belgian  troops,  and  full  of  young  fellows  drilling  and 
training  for  the  front:  they  look  very  business-like  and 
capable. 

When  I  wrote  to  you  on  Friday  I  thought  Alice  was 
going  down  to  you  that  day,  and  pictured  her  just  arrived: 
now  I  am  doing  the  same  thing  over  again.  I  am  sure 
she  will  congratulate  you  on  my  second  "mention."  It 
is  particularly  comfortable  coming  just  at  the  time  of 
my  return  to  France,  for  reasons  I  need  not  explain. 

When  I  sit  up  in  my  bed  in  the  morning  on  awaking, 
and  look  out  across  the  sea  I  think  of  you  in  your  bed 
looking  down  this  way:  we  are  pretty  nearly  face  to  face. 

We  have  no  boss  officers  here;  the  garrison  so  far  is 
too  unimportant;  a  Colonel  or  Lieutenant-Colonel  is  the 
highest.  I  should  think  the  English  soldiers  find  it  very 
dull:    but  I  fancy  they  are  rather  hard-worked. 

The  parish  priest  made  me  a  little  visit  of  ceremony 
yesterday  afternoon,  a  very  nice,  stout  old  party,  full  of 
civility  and  good-will.  He  seemed  to  think  my  room 
very  chic,  but  I  planted  him  by  the  window,  where  a 
good  strong  draught  blew  in  his  ear,  and  he  moderated 
his  transports. 


John  Ayscough^s  Letters  to  his  Mother         93 

I  must  bring  this  very  dull  letter  to  an  end,  with  all 
the  usual  messages  to  Christie,  Alice,  Togo,  Bert,  Mary, 
etc. 

I  have  to  write  to  poor  Lady  Antrobus. 

February  26,  191 5 

Please  don't  address  Army  Pay  Office,  as  you  did 
your  last,  for  the  nearest  Army  Pay  Office  is  at  Abbeville 
forty  or  fifty  miles  away,  and  they  might  send  all  your 
letters  there. 

I  wish  my  letters  didn't  reach  you,  as  they  seem  to, 
in  batches:  I  write  every  day  and  should  like  you  to  get 
a  letter  every  day. 

It  has  been  horribly  cold  here,  but  now  has  got  milder 
again;  the  cold  gets  hold  of  my  liver  and  makes  me 
seedy.  Of  course  this  situation,  exposed  to  north,  east, 
and  west  winds  is  very  cold;  and  often  it  is  quite  mild 
in  the  streets  of  the  town  behind,  and  bitter  here.  Still 
it  is  much  the  nicest  situation,  and  I  don't  suppose  it 
will  always  be  cold. 

After  luncheon  yesterday  I  went  for  a  walk  along  the 
shore:  very  pretty,  but  very  hard  going:  the  "plage" 
ends  where  the  casino  shows  in  your  big  card;  then  it 
becomes  at  once  quite  a  desolate  coast,  with  very  high, 
precipitous  cliffs.  At  the  foot  of  them  there  is  no  sand, 
only  coarse  shingle,  very  hard  to  walk  on,  and  further 
out  a  sort  of  floor  of  prickly  rock  full  of  pools.  There 
I  found  a  lot  of  wounded  French  soldiers,  convalescents, 
busily  picking  mussles  —  millions  of  them  cover  the 
rocks  —  and  I  asked  if  they  cooked  them,  and  how; 
but  they  promptly  proceeded  to  show  me  how  they  ate 
them  raw:   Hmpets,  also. 

One  of  the  lads  told  me  that  in  addition  to  his  wound 
he  had  just  had  typhoid.  "You'll  have  it  again  in  about 
half  an  hour,"  I  reassuringly  told  him. 

There  are  no  shells  along  this  shore,  but  I  think  one 
could  pick  up  hundreds  of  pebbles  that  would  polish  well. 


94         John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

Aoout  a  mile  away  I  saw  a  family  —  perhaps  two  — 
living  in  a  cave  —  they  live  there  always  and  must 
often  be  shut  in  by  the  tide.  The  door  of  the  rock  house 
is  about  forty  feet  above  the  base  of  the  cliff.  I  am 
trying  hard  to  get  off  my  chest  an  immense  number  of 
letters  owing  to  people:  I  write  over  twenty  a  day,  but 
there  seem  heaps  still  to  get  through.  So  I  am  only 
going  to  make  this  one  to  you  a  short  one. 


February  27,  191 5 

I  FOUND  to-day  in  the  town  a  card  of  the  cave-dwellers 
along  the  cliffs,  and  so  I  send  it  to  you.  Also  some  of 
the  old  castle  that  I  happened  to  visit  on  duty  to-day, 
in  search  of  CathoHc  soldiers:  it  is  at  present  occupied 
by  about  sixty  English  soldiers,  and  very  rough  their 
quarters  are:  old  mediaeval  rooms  tumbling  to  decay, 
with  rotten  floors,  and  crumbhng  roofs,  no  beds,  and 
no  straw,  only  a  blanket  or  two  on  the  damp  and  dirty 
floors:  and  no  fires!  However,  they  were  very  cheery, 
and  did  not  grumble  an  atom.  They  showed  me  all 
over  the  place,  quite  proud  of  an  English  officer  for  a 
visitor.  I  never  saw  a  more  ghostly  place:  and  how 
cold  it  must  be  these  tearing  nights  of  frost,  sleet,  wind, 
and  fog,  perched  up  on  that  cliff"  exposed  to  every  gale 
that  blows.  The  sixty  soldiers  in  it  are  like  half  a  dozen 
peas  in  a  barn. 

Isn't  the  east  end  view  of  St.  Jacques  lovely.^  and  the 
interior,  too? 

You  must  understand  that  the  cave-dwelling  illustrated 
is  high  up  the  face  of  the  cliff.  A  weird  enough  place  to 
live  with  the  ocean  thundering  at  your  feet  in  high  tide, 
and  quite  cut  off  from  all  other  human  intercourse  at 
times. 

It  is  very  late  and  I  must  go  to  dinner. 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother         95 

February  28,  191 5 

This  is  Sunday,  and  yesterday  I  got  your  letter  written 
on  Thursday:  not  bad  to  get  it  the  day  but  one  after  it 
was  posted,  was  it?  and  with  it  came  the  parcel  containing 
the  school  magazines,  and  the  printed  slips  from  Arrow- 
smith. 

I  went  this  morning  to  say  Mass  at  seven,  at  St.  Aubyn, 
one  of  the  outlying  places  where  there  are  a  few  soldiers 
about  eight  kilometers  from  here.  I  only  have  about 
eighteen  or  twenty-six  there,  so  my  congregation  was 
not  large,  but  it  was  very  attentive  and  devout.  At 
ten  I  said  another  Mass  in  St.  Jacques. 

They  have  given  me  for  my  Mass  a  side  chapel  dedi- 
cated to  Our  Lady  of  Good  Help,  rather  large  and  very 
interesting;  from  the  groined  roof  hang  quaint  models  of 
ships,  put  up  as  ex  voto  offerings  from  sailors  or  fishermen, 
in  thanksgiving  for  escape  from  shipwreck.  Dieppe  has 
always  been  a  great  sea-place,  and  in  the  old  days  suffered 
continually  from  English  descents  upon  it.  The  old 
castle  was  built  to  defend  it  against  us:  and  now  the 
streets  are  pervaded  by  English  soldiers  who  come  as 
friends. 

The  Belgian  soldiers  training  here  are  a  very  nice  set 
of  men:  with  such  good,  honest,  pure-minded  faces:  and 
alas!  such  boys.     They  drill  and  march  splendidly. 

The  long  line  of  hotels  are  all  hospitals  except  this 
one,  full  of  wounded  French  soldiers:  and  it  is  they  who 
are  to  be  seen  limping  along  on  the  "plage."  And,  alas, 
you  hardly  see  a  woman  (not  one  well-dressed  one)  who 
is  not  in  mourning.  Of  course  they  are  not  all  widows, 
but  Frenchwomen  put  on  such  tons  of  crape  that  they 
all  look  like  it. 

The  chamber-maid  who  does  my  room,  **Jeanne," 
has  her  husband  fighting  at  the  front,  in  the  Vosges 
district  where  the  fighting  is  so  bitter,  hand  to  hand,  and 
incessant.     She  is  a  very  good,  nice  girl,  and  I  made  her 


g6         John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

very  happy  yesterday  by  sending  off  to  her  husband  a 
Httle  parcel  containing  two  shirts  and  a  pair  of  knitted 
socks. 

The  interpreter  at  the  Base  office  here  is  a  French 
private  soldier,  also  a  Jesuit  priest,  called  Pere  Constant: 
a  really  nice  young  fellow.  Of  course  he  is  lucky  to  have 
the  job,  but  all  the  same  I  feel  sorry  for  him.  His  only 
companions  all  day  are  the  other  (English)  private 
soldiers,  and  they  just  call  him  "Constant,"  and  treat 
him  as  they  treat  the  soldiers  who  are  chauffeurs,  etc. 
He  tells  me  that  thirty  Jesuit  priests  have  been  killed  at 
the  front  —  not  chaplains,  you  know,  but  fighting  as 
soldiers. 

There  is  a  nice  little  Belgian  lady  in  this  hotel;  she 
came  here  seventeen  days  ago  to  meet  her  husband  who 
was  expecting  seven  days'  leave  from  the  front.  To-day 
he  arrived  and  she  presented  him  to  me  with  great  pride: 
he  is  an  officer,  about  twenty-six,  and  very  smart  and 
also  very  nice.  It  does  one  good  to  see  the  little  wife's 
happiness. 

The  sunset  just  now  behind  those  western  cliffs  was 
quite  lovely.  A  very  angry  sea  in  front,  dark  olive- 
green,  with  black  patches,  and  wonderful  clear  yellow 
patches;  the  headlands,  and  behind,  saffron  and  primrose 
sky  showing  through  rags  of  fierce  cloud. 

The  tide,  as  you  say,  would  be  dangerous  under  those 
cliffs,  but  it  does  not  seevi  to  go  out,  or  come  in  much, 
because  the  shore  is  really  steep,  and  the  water  is  very 
deep  quite  close:    big  ships  come  quite  close  in. 

The  mail  goes  to  England  regularly  every  night,  but 
it  is  escorted  by  French  torpedo-destroyers. 

The  naval  officers  here  seem  to  think  that  since  the 
blockade  began  we  have  not  been  really  losing  any  more 
ships  than  were  being  destroyed  by  the  Germans  before 
the  blockade  started,  while  we  have  been  sinking  many 
more  of  their  submarines. 

The  worst  of  this  hotel  is,  it  is  very  dear:    but  the 


John  Ayscough'' s  Letters  to  his  Mother         97 

others  in  the  town  are  very  fifth  rate  French  country- 
town  inns,  and  I  don't  feel  inchned  to  try  them.  I  have 
looked  at  some,  but  they  were  so  grubby,  so  noisy,  and  so 
un-sanitatious  that  I  decided  not  to  venture  on  one. 

Most  of  the  Enghsh  officers  are  at  one  by  the  railway- 
station:  and  I  thought  it  quite  beastly  and  if  the  Germans 
did  send  a  little  Zeppelin,  of  course  they  would  make  for 
the  railway-station  and  try  to  drop  their  bombs  there! 
There  is  really  nothing  to  tempt  the  enemy  here:  there 
is  only  one  barrack  and  that  quite  avv^ay  from  the  town 
inland. 

I  must  stop  now  and  write  some  other  letters. 

March  i,  191 5 

I  HAD  a  long  and  pleasant  letter  from  Lady  Glenconner 
to-day:  I  did  not  confess  to  you  that  when  I  went  to 
luncheon  with  her  in  London  her  house  was  a  hospital: 
Bimbo,  the  eldest  boy,  the  Guardsman,  in  bed  with  in- 
fluenza; David,  the  third  boy,  with  diphtheria.  How- 
ever, both  were  doing  very  well;  and  now  Bimbo  has 
jaundice,  and  lies  in  bed,  she  says,  with  long  hands  that 
look  like  rare  yellow  orchids.  Poor  Sir  Edmund  Antrobus 
died,  it  seems,  after  an  operation  at  Amesbury.  Chris- 
topher, Lady  Glenconner's  second  boy,  the  Naval  one, 
is  she  thinks  (but  does  not  know)  helping  to  take  the 
Dardanelles.  She  herself  is  a  prey  to  neuralgia  after  all 
her  nursing,  and  lies  with  a  hot-water  bottle  on  the  nape 
of  her  neck:  but  apologises  for  mentioning  it,  saying: 
"I  ought  to  imitate  the  admirable  Lady  Sarah  Bunbury, 
who  at  the  end  of  a  long  and  interesting  letter  about 
politics,  etc.,  tells  Susan  Fox-Strangways,  in  an  ex- 
cellently restricted  postscript,  'I  have  lost  the  sight  of 
one  eye.'"  She  also  apologises  for  a  little  ignorance  of 
hers  about  a  minute  matter  and  says:  "Did  I  ever  tell 
you  of  Sir  Henry  Newbolt's  friend,  who  dreamt  such  a 
good  word?     He  dreamt  he  was  arguing  against  a  wrong- 


98         John  j^yscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

headed  man  and  kept  saying,  *I  tell  you  it's  more  than 
ignorance,  it's  pignorance.'"  And  she  hopes  I'll  forgive 
her  pignorance. 

You  will  say  I  am  mean  to  fill  up  my  letter  out  of 
another  person's  letter.     But  there  is  no  news. 

We  had  another  terrific  gale  last  night,  and  indeed  it 
is  going  on  still  —  enormous  waves  breaking  right  over 
the  light-house. 

I  have  heard  quite  often  lately  from  Madame  Clary 
and  she  always  sends  really  loving  messages  to  you. 
I  think  she  is  more  cheerful  since  her  total  blindness  than 
she  used  to  be. 

Now  good-bye. 

I  don't  apologise  for  dull  letters,  because  I  know  no 
one  here,  and  don't  want  to  know  anyone,  and  there  is 
nothing  to  tell  in  a  daily  letter. 

Tuesday y  March  2,  191 5 

I  SHALL  have  to  write  rather  a  short  letter  if  I  finish 
it  to-night,  for  it  is  late,  and  just  on  dinner-time.  I 
have  been  out  with  the  Senior  Naval  Ofl&cer  here,  to  see 
that  ship  the  "Dinorah"  which  I  told  you  the  Germans 
torpedoed  on  the  i8th,  and  which  I  saw  towed  in  here 
that  same  day. 

I  went  out  at  6.30  this  morning  and  said  Mass  for 
Pierce,  and  shall  do  so  to-morrow,  too.  At  eleven  I  took 
my  letter  to  the  Base,  and  found  yours  of  the  28th,  with 
the  little  cutting  about  Kyffin  Salter's  will.  Fancy  his 
leaving  over  £100,000!  Most  of  it  the  Langford  money 
he  inherited  from  our  old  friend. 

The  post  also  brought  me  a  letter  from  Lady  Antrobus. 

Well,  at  five  I  went  to  look  at  the  torpedoed  "  Dinorah, " 
originally  an  Austrian  ship,  taken  by  the  French  and 
used  by  the  Government  for  conveying  oats,  hay,  and 
trench-timbers  to  Dunkirk  for  the  troops.  The  hole  is 
very  big,   about  nine  feet  high  and  nine  long  showings 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother         99 

and  more  of  it  under  the  very  low-tide  water-level  in  the 
dock.  We  examined  it  outside,  then  climbed  down  to 
examine  it  from  within.  The  torpedo  struck  just  amid- 
ship  and  the  torn-ofF  plate  is  in  a  coal-bunker,  separate 
compartment  from  the  rest  of  the  ship,  otherwise  she 
would  have  gone  straight  to  the  bottom.  We  went  up 
and  talked  to  the  captain  and  engineer;  I  doing  inter- 
preter: such  nice  men,  simple,  plain,  honest  fellows, 
with  no  buck  or  swash-bucklering  about  them.  They 
said  the  noise,  when  the  torpedo  struck  the  ship,  was 
horrible:  she,  poor  thing,  shivered  and  leapt  up  in  the 
air,  then  came  down,  and  they  no  doubt  thought  she  was 
going  down  to  the  bottom  of  the  sea.  It  was  2  a.m. 
and  every  light  was  extinguished  by  the  explosion;  how 
terrible  that  darkness  must  have  been!  They  showed 
us  a  bit  of  the  torpedo  itself,  that  the  force  of  the  explo- 
sion had  flung  up  onto  the  roof  of  the  engine-house  — 
a  piece  about  two  feet  long  and  eighteen  inches  wide, 
weighing  a  huge  amount. 

It  was  a  most  interesting  visit:  my  Naval  Officer  had 
never  seen  a  torpedoed  ship  any  more  than  I  had.  After 
all  the  damage  done  is  only  slight  and  can  soon  be  re- 
paired: no  doubt  the  Germans  flatter  themselves  the 
ship  and  her  crew  are  lying  far  beneath  the  waves. 

I  must  stop.  It  is  not  nearly  so  cold  and  the  gale  has 
subsided. 

March  4,  191 5 

Yesterday,  Wednesday,  I  received  your  letter  written 
on  Monday:  it  seems  the  regular  thing  now  to  get  letters 
from  England  the  day  but  one  after  they're  written. 

Yesterday  I  also  received  enclosed  letter  from  Dora 
Severin,  now  Dora  Hardy,  an  orphan  niece  of  Mrs. 
Bland's,  whom  that  most  generous  and  self-sacrificing 
(and  very  poor)  woman  adopted  and  brought  up.  As  a 
tiny  child  you  may  remember  her  at  Ellesmere  one 
summer  when  all  the  Blands  took  lodgings  there. 


100       John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

Our  cold  weather  has  quite  gone,  and  we  have  muggy 
but  much  warmer  weather,  that  in  Malta  would  certainly 
be  called  a  sirocco,  which  I  confess  I  like  better.  I  can 
sit  in  my  room  in  comfort  without  freezing. 

Good-bye  for  to-day. 

March  4,  191 5 

I  THINK  I  have  even  less  than  usual  to  make  a  letter 
out  of  to-night.  I  walked  to  the  Base  office  after  Mass 
and  got  your  letter  of  Tuesday  —  the  day  before  yester- 
day—  and  a  lot  of  others.  Also  the  Month  for  March: 
did  you  get  a  copy,  too.^ 

By  same  post  came  a  perfectly  charming  letter  from 
Sir  Charles  Fergusson,  who  commanded  my  Division  at 
the  beginning  of  the  war,  and  was  very  kind  to  me,  and 
who  now  commands  a  whole  Army  Corps.  He  had  been 
reading  the  thing  of  mine  in  the  February  Month,  and 
immediately  wrote  home  for  the  January  and  all  suc- 
cessive numbers. 

He  begs  me  to  go  and  stay  with  him  at  the  Head- 
quarters of  the  Army  Corps,  which  of  course,  I  can't. 

Also  I  heard  from  Lady  O'Conor,  who  is  sending  me 
out  things  —  I  really  need  none;  but  it  is  very  nice  of 
her. 

The  head  priest  at  St.  Jacques  is  a  queer  old  boy,  and 
rather  amusing.  I  said  Mass  for  the  Dead  to-day,  and 
told  him  it  was  for  all  those  killed  in  the  war.  "All 
those  killed  among  the  Allies,  you  mean,"  he  said.  *'0h, 
no!  for  the  dead  of  all  armies,"  I  told  him.  He  made  a 
very  ugly  face  and  said:  "I  won't  do  that.  The  Bon 
Dieu  must  look  after  the  Germans  Himself,  for  me." 
I  laughed  and  said:  "Perhaps  the  Bon  Dieu  will  say  that 
He  has  no  time,  then,  to  look  after  you."  Whereupon 
the  sacristan  giggled  and  he  went  away  shaking  his  old 
head. 

There  are  two  nice  Misses  La  Primaudaye  nursing  in 


John  Ayscough^s  Letters  to  his  Mother       loi 

a  French  hospital  here:  nieces  of  Mr.  La  Primaudaye  at 
Malta,  and  cousins  of  your  beloved  Margaret  Pollen. 

I  have  been  answering  letters  for  four  and  a  half  hours 
in  a  row,  so  I  shall  make  this  a  short  one. 

To-day  has  been  mild  and  windless,  with  a  thick  sea 
mist,  very  wetting,  but  it  is  only  on  the  "front;"  in  the 
town  there's  none. 

I  give  the  little  chap  who  serves  my  Mass  a  few  pennies 
every  day  —  he  is  a  rather  sad-looking  (sailor's)  orphan. 
I  asked  him  to-day  if  he  bought  cakes  or  sweets  with  his 
pennies  (all  cakes  and  sweets  are  very  dear  here).  ''Je 
71  en  achete  rien^'^  he  answered,  "/^  les  ecoyiomise"  It 
sounds  so  much  finer  than:   "I  save  them  up." 

Now  to  dinner. 

Friday  y  March  5,  191 5 

How  do  you  do? 

It  has  been  very  mild,  almost  stuffy,  here  for  the  last 
day  or  two,  sometimes  quite  windless;  but  to-day, 
especially  to-night,  with  a  strong,  not  cold,  westerly  gale. 
A  very  thin  rain  or  sea-fog  (only  it  isn't  a  fog  on  land) 
all  day,  thickening  towards  evening. 

Saturday 

I  only  got  so  far,  and  was  interrupted  last  night. 
To-day  is  a  most  wild  day,  and  the  sea  outside  a  turmoil 
of  waves,  rain,  spray,  spin-drift,  and  howling  wind: 
inside  it  is  very  cosey,  not  cold  a  bit. 

The  ships  can't  get  in  to  port  at  certain  states  of  tide, 
and  eighteen  have  just  accumulated  outside,  with  torpedo 
destroyers  fussing  round  them  in  case  of  a  submarine 
turning  up! 

I  have  been  watching  them  (very  glad  I  was  not  on 
board  any  of  them,  they  jumped  and  rolled  so  horribly); 
they  have  just  been  able  to  get  into  the  port,  and  it  was 
very  pleasant  to  see  them  slip  in  one  by  one. 


102       John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

I  got  a  lot  of  letters  to-day,  including  two  of  yours 
of  the  third  and  fourth. 

Your  letters  are  anything  but  dull,  always  most  cheery 
and  pleasant  reading:  none  more  interesting  to  me.  I 
also  got  a  long  and  very  pleasant  letter  from  Lord  Malise 
Graham,  A.  D.  C,  to  my  other  friend  Sir  Charles  Fergus- 
son,  whom  I  used  often  to  mention  to  you  in  the  early 
days  of  the  war.  When  Sir  Charles  went  home  he  had 
to  return  to  his  battery;  now  Sir  Charles  is  commanding 
a  whole  Army  corps  he  has  come  back  to  him.  He  says 
"I  had  to  go  and  shoot  Germans  for  two  and  a  half 
months,  but  the  only  thing  I  know  I  shot  was  a  Flemish 
cow. 

Send  a  post-card  to  Ryders,  Seedsmen,  St.  Albans,  and 
ask  them  to  send  you  a  catalogue  and  one  to  me  here. 
Army  post  office,  S.  8.,  B.  E.  F.  and  between  us  we  will 
choose  seeds. 

I  must  dry  up  because  I  have  to  go  and  hear  con- 
fessions at  St.  Jacques. 

Sunday y  March  7,  191 5 

I  WAS  dehghted  to  get  your  letter  to-day,  and  to 
know  you  were  taking  good  care  of  your  little  cough; 
don't  let  it  grow  a  big  one.  Bed  is  the  best  place  for 
coughs. 

I   had   two  letters  to-day  from  people  who  recognise 

I  did  them  good  turns:   Major who  has  just  got  the 

D.  S.  O.,  and  Martin,  who  has  been  mentioned  in  dis- 
patches. Both  say  they  owe  it  to  my  asking  it  for 
them,  as  I  did.  Martin  writes  a  long  letter  and  ends  up: 
"It  was  a  great  privilege  being  with  you  and  I  shall 
always  think  you  one  of  the  finest  men  in  the  world."!! 

These  kindly  letters  do  make  up  for  the  malice  and 
jealousy  of  some  other  people. 

Sir  Charles  Fergusson  sends  another  letter,  full  of 
genuine   affection   and   respect,   and   I   never   knew  him 


John  Ayscough' s  Letters  to  his  Mother        103 

till  I  served  under  him.  He  commanded  my  Division 
then,  now  he  has  succeeded  Sir  Horace  in  command  of 
a  whole  Army  Corps,  Sir  H.  being  in  command  of  the 
2d  Army.  He  says,  "Will  you  think  it  very  impertinent 
of  me  if  I  ask  you  to  go  and  see  my  wife  whenever  you  are 
in  London  again?  I  have  talked  to  her  hundreds  of 
times  about  you,  and  our  children  would  simply  adore 
you."  Lady  Alice  Fergusson  has  her  share  of  anxiety 
from  the  war:  her  husband  at  the  front,  and  two  brothers: 
(a  third  brother  already  killed  there). 

I  tell  you  all  this  not  out  of  vanity,  but  to  console  you 
with  the  idea  that  there  are  plenty  whose  opinion  is 
worth  something  who  think  thus  of  your  son  out  here. 

"The  men,"  says  Major  Ormsby,  "never  forget  you, 
or  cease  talking  of  you.  'There  was  nobody  like  Mon- 
signor,'  they  say,  *he  was  a  gentleman.'" 

You  aren't  the  only  person  who  thought  it  odd  that 
with  the  double  mention  in  dispatches  there  was  no 
"recognition." 

I  left  here  to-day  at  6.30  a.m.  to  go  and  say  Mass  for 
the  few  sheep  I  have  in  the  wilderness  at  St.  Aubyn,  and 
then  said  Mass  at  St.  Jacques  at  ten.  I  had  quite  a 
long  talk  with  the  two  Misses  La  Primaudaye  —  they 
made  my  congregation  thirteen.  They  said:  "What 
are  you  here  for?  Someone  jealous  somewhere,  I 
suppose?" 

Our  soldiers  are  playing  football  outside  on  the  grass 
between  my  window  and  the  sea.  I  love  to  see  them 
enjoying  themselves.  The  Jesuit  soldier,  Father  Con- 
stant, is  coming  to  dine  with  me  here  to-night;  he  is  a 
very  nice  man. 

Monday  Evening,  March  8,  191 5 

It  is  nearly  dinner-time,  and  I  have  only  just  come  in 
from  a  rather  long  visit  to  the  hospital;  not  because  I 
have  many  sick  there,  for  I  only  have  two,  but  because, 
after  talking  to  each  of  them  a  good  while,  just  as  I  was 


I04       John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

coming  away  the  matron  asked  me  if  I  would  mind 
going  in  to  chat  with  a  sick  officer  who  would  be  very 
glad  to  have  me;  so  I  stayed  on  another  hour  with  himl 
He  proved  to  be  nice.  His  name  is  Captain  Lyttelton, 
and  he  was  out  in  Malta  when  we  were,  with  the  Northum- 
berland Fusilier  Militia;  do  you  remember  them?  Poor 
young  Lord  Encombe  who  died  was  in  them,  so  were  the 
Roddams  (a  deaf  lady),  and  the  Jervoises  and  a  lot  of 
others  whom  we  knew  slightly  or  well. 

My  Jesuit  priest-soldier  who  dined  with  me  last  night 
enjoyed  his  evening,  I  think. 

On  Saturday  I  meant  to  tell  you  about  the  weekly 
market  here,  which  is  rather  quaint.  The  actual  market- 
place by  St.  Jacques  is  not  nearly  large  enough,  and  for 
a  quarter  of  a  mile  along  the  principal  street,  the  market- 
women  plant  themselves  on  the  pavement,  and  set  out 
their  goods  to  tempt  the  public. 

They  are  almost  all  uncommonly  plain,  and  not  very 
un-English  looking:  there  are  some  dark  and  handsome 
Normans,  but  in  general  they  are  fairish,  with  eyes  of  no 
particular  colour,  and  features  of  no  particular  shape  — 
quite  unlike  the  Latin  type,  French  or  Italian.  They 
are,  like  all  French  people,  frugal  and  careful,  content 
to  make  a  little  money  slowly,  but  using  everything  and 
wasting  nothing.  Some  had  a  chicken  to  sell;  one  had 
a  turkey.  Some  had  even  two  chickens:  hundreds  had 
eggs,  a  good  lot  of  eggs,  and  there  were  Belgian  non- 
commissioned officers  Vv^ith  big  baskets  buying  hundreds 
of  eggs  for  barracks.  But  some  had  only  very  small 
affairs  —  half  a  dozen  bunches  of  snowdrops,  a  mere 
handful  of  salad,  enough  white  "honesty"  seed-pods  to 
fill  a  small  vase,  three  or  four  cheeses  at  twopence  each; 
they  despise  nothing.  Imagine  a  Wiltshire  villager  walk- 
ing to  Salisbury  to  sell  a  handful  of  "honesty"  pods, 
or  a  handful  of  radishes! 

It  was  quaint  and  interesting,  and  I  think  they  them- 
selves think  the  market  very  serious  business. 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother        105 

The  few  hens,  and  the  one  turkey  sat  very  composedly 
by  their  owners'  sides,  waiting  to  be  bought. 

Very  few  of  the  women  wear  hats,  in  fact  scarcely 
any;  the  younger  ones  are  bareheaded  (even  in  church) 
the  elder  wear  very  unbecoming  little  black  knitted 
capes  with  a  sort  of  cap  forming  part  of  it,  and  drawn 
over  the  head.  I  must  say  the  capes  and  caps  look 
grubby,  and  are  not  picturesque  or  flattering  to  a  plain, 
drab  face.  One  or  two  wear  regular  bonnets  (very  stale 
and  greasy)  always  greasy  and  always  black,  of  the  build 
I  call  lodging-house  woman,  or  char-woman  —  generally 
made  of  wool:  and  probably  the  ancestral  home  of  a 
humble  but  contented  population. 

If  you  sit  close  to  these  elderly  females  in  church  you 
are  conscious  of  a  sourish,  frowsy  atmosphere. 

In  all  the  streets  (we  here,  of  course,  are  not  in  a  street, 
but  on  the  "plage")  there  are  runnels  of  water  beside 
the  pavements.  At  intervals  are  sort  of  taps  out  of  which 
the  water,  always  running  (and  quite  good  and  clean) 
comes.  But  those  runnels  are  really  the  drains.  Every- 
thing out  of  the  houses  is  emptied  into  them  in  the  early 
morning,  and  as  I  go  to  Mass  at  6.30  I  see  awful  things! 

I  must  say  that  the  sea-front  is  the  place  to  live  on. 
All  the  same,  Dieppe  is  not  smelly:  the  water  runs  so 
incessantly  that  all  atrocities  are  rapidly  carried  ofi^  into 
the  avant-port  or  arriere-port.  All  the  same  I  shouldn't 
care  to  eat  mussels  here  (nor  oysters,  either). 

To-day  at  luncheon  there  were  mussels:  yesterday, 
enormous  whelks.  I  tackled  neither,  nor  do  I  think  any 
of  us  do.  I  saw  a  man  go  the  length  of  tearing  a  whelk 
out  of  its  shell,  but  it  looked  so  horrible  that  he  got  no 
further. 

It  is  time  to  stop  and  go  to  dinner.  Tell  me  if  you 
can  easily  read  my  letters  written  on  both  sides  of  this 
very  thin,  but  excellent  paper.  If  not  I  will  only  use 
one  side  of  it,  and  I  think  one  is  only  supposed  to  write 
on  one  side  of  it. 


io6       'John  AyscougVs  Letters  to  his  Mother 

Wednesday  Evenings  March  lo,  191 5 

This  is  the  third  letter  I  have  written  to  you  to-day: 
first,  a  very  short  one  asking  for  a  new  stock,  which 
I  took  to  the  Base  office  with  a  lot  of  other  letters,  and 
found  yours  in  which  you  were  making  yourself  miserable 
because  of  some  idea  that  I  was  up  at  the  front,  or 
might  be. 

So  I  sent  you  a  second  letter  to  assure  you  I  am  still, 
and  am  likely  to  remain  here,  where  I  have  been  all  along, 
until  I  go  home:   if  I  do  go  home. 

And  now  I  am  writing  my  regular  evening  letter  to 
post  to-morrow.  I  hope  you  will  be  fit  again  before 
this  reaches  you. 

I  promise  you  not  to  apply  for  any  change  from  this 
place,  though  my  being  here  is  ridiculous,  and  also  hor- 
ribly expensive.  At  the  front  one's  personal  expenses 
were  almost  nothing  —  £1  for  messing  about  once  in 
three  weeks!  Here  they  rush  me  over  £4  a  week.  Of 
course  if  they  wrote  and  said  there  was  a  chaplain  needed 
in  some  more  active  place  and  would  I  go,  I  should  say 
yes. 

Yesterday  I  was  late  coming  in  because  I  had  been  out 
into  the  country.  Up  at  the  front  I  nursed  a  young 
French  cavalry  soldier  (among  many)  whom  our  men 
picked  up  badly  wounded  and  brought  in.  He  was 
enormously  grateful  and  often  wrote  to  me,  and  often 
wrote  to  his  people  about  me:  they  are  Norman  peasants 
living  at  a  hamlet  called  Etran  near  here.  As  soon  as 
he  knew  where  I  was  he  begged  me  to  go  and  see  them, 
which  I  did.  It  seems  he  had  sent  them  a  little  portrait 
of  me  cut  out  of  a  newspaper,  and  as  soon  as  I  arrived 
they  called  out,  "It's  Charles's  priest!" 

They  were  nice,  very  simple  country-folk:  but  re- 
spectable and  well-to-do.  I  told  them  how  wonderfully 
sweet  and  patient,  gentle  and  grateful,  Charles  had 
been  when  sufi^ering  with  a  bad  shell-wound  in  his  hip, 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother        107 

and  they  sat  round  listening  with  a  most  deUghtful, 
simple  pride. 

The  mother  is  a  stout  old  party,  with  a  large  Norman 
face,  the  daughter  rather  like  her  brother,  but  less  good- 
looking,  and  the  two  little  boys  listened  with  all  their 
eyes  while  I  expatiated  on  their  young  uncle's  bravery 
and  goodness. 

I  have  now  been  out  to  another  place  in  the  country: 
Varengeville.  The  Commanding  Officer  there  is  a  Colonel 
Acland,  a  very  nice  man  to  whom  I  had  written  to  arrange 
about  my  going  out  to  give  services  for  his  twelve  men. 

He  very  civilly  came  to  see  me,  and  we  motored  out 
there,  and  then  I  motored  back. 

He  is  a  brother  of  Sir  William  Acland,  an  Admiral  we 
used  to  know  at  Plymouth,  and  he  and  Sir  William  mar- 
ried sisters,  both  daughters  of  W.  H.  Smith  and  Lady 
Hambleden,  Rebecca  Power's  sister.  So  we  had  great 
talks.  I  have  promised  to  go  to  luncheon  with  him, 
and  go  and  see  a  wonderful  old  house  called  the  Manoir 
d'Argo  near  there. 

I  send  you  the  German  Hymn  of  Hate!  Ask  Alice  to 
try  the  music  of  it.  It  was  in  the  Weekly  Dispatch 
wrapped  round  a  book.  I  did  not  buy  the  book,  but  one 
of  the  French  waiters  here  gave  it  me  for  a  present. 

Thursday^  March  11,  191 5 

I  RECEIVED  a  nice  letter  from  Alice  this  morning  in 
which  she  mentions  that  you  had  re-appeared,  or  were 
re-appearing  in  the  drawing-room,  and  were  really 
better,  which  it  cheered  me  very  much  to  hear.  I  asked 
them  at  the  Army  Post  Office  what  the  rates  are  for 
postage  to  us,  and  they  say: 

Up  to  quarter  pound  for  letters,  etc.  (anything),  id. 

Over  quarter  pound  and  up  to  one  pound,  4d. 

Over  one  pound  and  up  to  two  pounds,  8d. 
But  even  if  letters  are  overweight  they  have  never  sur- 


io8       John  JyscougFs  Letters  to  his  Mother 

charged,  and  (never  from  you)  I  have  received  plenty 
that  were  a  good  bit  over-weight. 

To-day  is  mild  and  warm,  rather  misty:  and  I  must 
say  I  prefer  it  to  the  tearing  windy  days;  because  the 
wind  is  always  cold. 

Both  yesterday  and  to-day  I  have  been  overtaken  in 
the  street  by  the  Base  Commandant,  who  joined  on  and 
walked  and  talked:  he  does  the  latter  with  great  vigour. 
He  is  clever,  but  full  of  theories.  He  has  all  sorts  of 
theories  about  races  (I  don't  mean  the  Derby  or  the 
Grand  National,  but  peoples)  and  he  loves  to  sit  on  their 
backs  (the  theories'  backs)  and  ride  them. 

Unfortunately  I  don't  think  history  quite  confirms 
them.  He  is  serenely  aware  that  the  French,  Spaniards, 
Romans,  Greeks,  Assyrians,  etc.,  all  had  their  day,  and 
passed  it:  but  he  cannot  perceive  that  what  happened 
to  them  might  some  day  happen  to  the  British  .  .  . 
because  we  are  Northerns.  Northern  races,  he  seems  to 
think,  are  immortal:   I  hope  so. 

However,  he  is  not  quite  sure  whether  the  British  or 
the  Russians  are  to  boss  the  world  after  the  war.  I  think 
he  finds  me  an  agreeable  listener,  for  I  have  had  three 
goes  of  his  theories  in  twenty-four  hours:  anyway,  he's 
uncommonly  civil  and  I  would  rather  hsten  to  theories, 
for  a  change,  than  unending  war-talk. 

Besides  the  two  Church  of  England  Army  chaplains  here 
now,  there's  a  regular  Church  of  England  chaplain  for 
the  Dieppe  English  Colony.  He  is  a  German,  and  the 
French,  of  course,  hate  him,  and  his  wife  is  an  Irish 
Catholic:  which  the  members  of  his  congregation  highly 
disapprove.  The  senior  Church  of  England  Military 
chaplain  lives  in  this  hotel,  and  we  sit  together  at  meals. 
He  is  a  very  friendly  and  pleasant  person,  and  we  get  on 
very  well.  He  can't  take  his  eyes  off  a  very  remarkable- 
looking  young  French  lady  who  sits  at  the  next  table 
(with  her  husband).  She  dresses  beautifully  and  would 
not  be  bad-looking,  only  she  whitewashes  her  face  and 


John  Ayscough^s  Letters  to  his  Mother        109 

paints  her  lips  bright  scarlet;  her  paint  makes  her  truly 
alarming  to  look  at,  and  I  avoid  an  acquaintance.  My 
brother  chaplain  is  always  watching  to  see  if  the  scarlet 
comes  off  her  lips  onto  her  napkin. 

You  never  saw  anybody  so  thin  as  this  lady:  Mrs. 
H.  C.  is  fat  and  podgy  in  comparison  with  her.  She 
and  her  husband  look  very  well-bred  and  are  very  quiet. 

You  see  what  stuff  I  have  to  fill  my  letters  with;  this 
place  is  not  remarkable  for  incident,  and  I  carefully 
avoid  getting  to  know  the  English  colony.  In  places 
like  Boulogne,  Dieppe,  etc.,  there  is  always  an  English 
colony,  always  furiously  gossipy  and  quarrelsome,  and 
the  only  way  to  be  safe  is  to  keep  out  of  their  clutches 
altogether.  I  fancy  the  English  who  choose  to  live  in 
small  French  towns  near  England  have  little  histories 
very  often,  and  are  apt  to  be  queerish:  but  of  course 
I  don't  know. 

So  far  as  I  can  judge  there  is  no  French  aristocracy 
here;  you  hardly  ever  meet  anyone  in  the  streets  who 
looks  like  a  real  lady,  and  the  few  gentlemen  are  officers 
who  don't  belong  to  the  place.  In  fact  Dieppe  is  very 
expensive  and  I  think  French  aristocrats  would  not 
choose  it  to  live  in,  for  it  is  dull  and  they  would  get  very 
little  for  their  money.  Almost  next  door  there  is  one 
very  big  private  house,  and  the  princely  coronet  and 
arms  over  the  door  made  me  rather  curious  to  know  who 
could  live  there.  When  the  Base  Commandant  over- 
took me  just  now  he  had  been  to  call  there:  they  are  Rou- 
manians, a  Prince  and  Princess  Sburza.  Why  on  earth 
should  a  Roumanian  Prince  build  himself  a  huge  house 
at  Dieppe? 

Now  I  must  bring  this  long  but  very  dull  letter  to  an 
end.  Up  at  the  front  (and  at  home,  as  you  know)  I 
tried  wearing  very  thick  knitted  woollen  socks,  and  they 
were  always  damp,  no  matter  how  often  I  dried  them. 
Now  I've  gone  back  to  the  sort  I  always  used  to  wear, 
thin  ones,  and  my  feet  are  ten  times  warmer. 


no       John  AyscougJfs  Letters  to  his  Mother 

Friday  Evening,  March  12,  191 5 

I  HAVE  not  changed  my  address!  A.  P.  O.  is  only  the 
recognised  contraction  for  "Army  Post  Office"  as  B.  E.  F. 
is  for  British  Expeditionary  Force.  You  can  use  the 
contraction  or  the  full  as  you  like  —  the  only  thing  that 
matters  is  the  letter  S  and  the  number  8. 

Our  postal  service  is  very  well  managed,  and  is  not 
carried  out  by  ordinary  soldiers,  but  by  trained  post 
office  reservists  serving  out  here  in  that  way. 

I  got  your  dear  letter  of  Wednesday  to-day,  Friday; 
it  is  such  a  blessing  getting  one's  letters  so  soon. 

After  luncheon  I  went  for  a  walk  to  a  place  called  Puys, 
along  the  coast  eastwards.  I  had  to  cross  the  harbour 
and  then  got  on  to  the  fields  at  the  top  of  the  cliffs: 
you  need  not  fear  my  walking  too  near  the  edge  of  them, 
for  I  am  frighte7ied  of  them;  I  keep  well  away,  and  could 
not  go  and  look  over.  It  doesn't  make  me  giddy,  but 
it  gives  me  a  sort  of  horror.  To  tell  the  truth,  I  can't 
think  of  anything  else  that  does  frighten  me.  The  shells, 
etc.,  up  at  the  front,  never  did  in  the  least:  but  I  shrink 
away  with  a  most  singular  dread  from  the  edge  of  cliffs, 
etc. 

The  coast  is  rather  fine;  the  cliffs  enormously  high; 
along  the  shore  an  odd  floor  of  rock. 

Puys  isn't  much  to  see  when  you  get  there.  I  hoped 
to  find  a  fishing  village,  but  found  a  valley  running  up 
from  the  shore  (a  chine  really)  full  of  empty  villas  and 
an  enormous  empty  hotel. 

However,  it  was  a  walk. 

I  saw  only  two  people  all  the  way  after  leaving  the 
town:  two  English  soldiers,  walking  much  too  near  the 
edge  of  the  cliff.  I  warned  them  not  to,  and  told  them 
how  rotten  and  crumbly  the  chalk  is;  when  I  came  back 
I  found  them  both  lying  fast  asleep  about  three  feet 
from  the  edge  of  a  precipice  three  or  four  hundred  feet 
high. 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother       iii 

I   am  nearly  sure  that  old  people  cannot  get  spotted 
fever,  but  you  are  right  to  keep  suspects  away. 
Ryder's  catalogue  has  not  turned  up  yet. 
I  must  trot  off  to  dinner. 

Sunday.,  March  14,  191 5 

I  AM  sending  you  by  this  same  post,  but  separately, 
a  Dieppe  pate:  which  I  hope  will  arrive  in  good  time  and 
in  good  condition.     I  think  them  uncommonly  good. 

Yesterday  and  to-day  have  been  heavenly  days,  warm, 
soft,  bland,  with  a  bright  sun  and  a  windless  sea.  On 
the  latter  a  warm  mist,  but  the  boats  near  land  casting 
the  most  extraordinary  reflections  of  themselves  in  the 
unrippled  water.  The  cliffs  close  at  hand  stand  out 
white  and  gleaming,  but  their  line  curves  away  into  the 
pearly  haze  out  of  sight. 

At  this  moment  I  feel  tired :  at  six  I  arose  and  went  to 
Varengeville  to  say  Mass,  preach,  etc.,  for  Colonel 
Acland's  lot;  then  back  to  say  Mass,  preach,  etc.,  at 
St.  Jacques. 

I  have  just  had  my  breakfast,  and  am  sitting  at  my 
big  window,  both  leaves  of  it  wide  open.  The  French 
soldiers  (convalescents  from  wounds)  are  playing  foot- 
ball on  the  green  outside,  the  bright  sun  bringing  into 
full  glory  their  exquisite  red  legs! 

I  am  cracked  about  that  colour  and  want  to  have 
a  dressing  gown  made  of  it.  Please  tell  me  how  many 
yards  of  cloth  would  be  needed  to  make  me  a  dressing 
gown:  putting  the  breadth  at  a  metre  —  forty  inches. 
Don't  forget  to  answer  this ! 

This  paper  is  not  so  good  a  quality  as  the  last  —  (it's 
rather  like  what  one  covers  jam-pots  with).  Can  you 
easily  read  if  I  write  on  both  sides  .^ 

I  got  a  very  nice  letter  this  morning  from  a  Mrs.  Brent, 
very  cheerful,  and  laughing  at  herself  for  thinking  her 
son  had  been  wafted  up  country  somewhere. 

I  must  tell  you  they've  made  a  new  order  now  (and 


112       John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

issued  it  to  every  officer  so  that  none  can  say  he  "didn't 
know"):  I  enclose  it.  You  will  see  we  are  not  to  put 
even  the  military  address  at  the  head  of  our  letters;  we 
may  still  embody  it  in  the  text,  thus  A.  P.  O.,  S.  8., 
B.  E.  F.  (You  shouldn't  put  Expeditionary  Force  and 
B.  E.  F.  as  one  stands  for  the  other,  but  whichever  you 
find  least  trouble.) 

Of  course  this  new  order  sounds  awful  tosh,  but  we 
have  to  obey  it;  so  you  see  I  put  only  the  date  at  the 
top  of  this  letter. 

I  heard  from  you  both  yesterday  and  to-day:  yesterday 
I  took  my  letters  and  read  them  on  the  strand  in  the  sun. 
The  place  I  walked  to  on  Friday  afternoon,  Puys,  was 
a  favourite  retreat  of  Alexandre  Dumas  the  elder,  and 
of  a  number  of  French  men  of  letters,  of  his  time:  I 
daresay  it  was  a  fishing-village  when  they  began  to  go 
there,  but  their  favour  made  it  fashionable.  Alexandre 
Dumas  died  there.  The  late  Lord  Salisbury  went 
there  every  summer,  and  his  villa.  Chalet  Cecil,  is  to  the 
fore  still. 

I'm  glad  you  enjoyed  my  account  of  market-day  here; 
I  only  wish  I  could  draw. 

Normans  aren't  a  bit  like  real  French  people:  they 
have  tow-coloured  hair,  and  mud-coloured  faces,  and 
boiled-looking  eyes.  They  can't  bear  the  English  or  the 
Belgians  —  who  united  to  bombard  the  town  in  1694  and 
utterly  destroyed  it,  leaving  it  a  mere  heap  of  ruins  —  and 
now  the  streets  are  full  of  Belgian  and  English  soldiers! 

I  received  a  most  affectionate  letter  to-day  from  my  late 
Commanding  Officer,  Colonel  Slayter.  .  .  .  The  Pres- 
byterian principal  chaplain  has  been  going  the  rounds 
and  visited  15  Field  Ambulance.   ,   .  . 

I  must  stop  for  to-day. 

March  16,  191 5 

The  stock  arrived  to-day  and  fits  beautifully  —  ever 
so  many  thanks  for  it.     It  was  not  in  the  least  crushed 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother        113 

on  the  way.  You  put  8d  on  it  and  it  weighed  much 
under  one  pound,  so  it  should  only  have  had  4d.  You 
waste  your  stamps  every  day  in  writing  to  me. 

It  is  very  heavy,  muggy  weather  and  I  can  scarcely 
keep  my  eyes  open,  so  I  shall  not  attempt  a  real  letter 
now;  but  will  take  this  to  the  post  (it  has  to  be  there 
by  6  P.M.)  for  to-night's  boat,  then  come  back  and  write 
you  a  decent  letter. 

There  is  no  Sunday  boat  to  England  now,  nor  from  it, 
so  you  can  get  no  letter  from  me  on  Tuesdays  now,  nor 
I  from  you  on  Mondays. 

I  must  go  off"  to  the  post  before  I  fall  fast  asleep. 

Ever  so  many  thanks  for  the  stock. 

St.  Patrick's  Day^  March  17,  191 5 

I  HAD  another  nice  letter  from  you  to-day,  very  cheer- 
ing and  bright:  also  I  received  from  you  Ryder's  cata- 
logue, which  I  will  go  through  and  make  out  an  order, 
which  I  will  send  him  through  you,  so  that  you  and  I 
may  not  order  the  same  things  twice  over.  As  to  vege- 
table seeds,  we  usually  get  them  at  the  post  office,  as  we 
do  seed  potatoes,  and  Bert  had  better  get  them  there 
this  time.  They  come  from  a  Society  called  "One  and 
AH"  and  are  very  good. 

I  wore  your  new  stock  to-day  and  thank  you  afresh  for 
it.  I  received  ajter  Mass  a  box  of  shamrock  and  a  large 
box  of  good  cigarettes,  a  present  from  Cork:  unfor- 
tunately, they  were  addressed  thus:  "No.  8  Post  Office, 
Expeditionary  Force"  and  had  been  to  No.  8  P.  O.,  up 
at  the  front;  No.  8  Cavalry  Post  Office;  Headquarters; 
and  finally  here. 

The  sender  is  a  Mrs.  Scriven  (Helma  Scriven),  a  well- 
to-do  Irish  farmer  in  her  ozvn  right:  (Mr.  S.  is  gone  to 
Abraham's  bosom)  whom  I  never  saw,  but  I  knew  two 
very  nice  nephews  of  hers  in  the  Irish  Rifles  at  Tidworth, 
John  and  Denis  Lucy:    John  (only  quite  a  lad,  but  very 


114       John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

charming  and  refined)  is  now  a  Sergeant;  Denis,  un- 
fortunately, wounded  and  a  prisoner  since  last  September. 

Wasn't  it  nice  of  her  to  think  of  sending  me  the  cigar- 
ettes? It's  not  as  if  her  boys  were  here  and  I  could 
do  anything  for  them. 

The  Scarlet  Lady,  as  I  called  her,  has  gone  away  long 
ago.     Her  name  was  Madame  B. 

I  walked  to  Puys  along  the  cliffs  again  after  luncheon 
to-day:    at  the  top  of  the  cliffs  are  quite  flat  fields. 

On  Sunday  night  I  went  out  to  dinner,  invited  by  an 
elderly  French  widow  who  seems  to  feed  priests.  There 
were  six  of  them!  We  had  quite  a  delicious  dinner, 
thoroughly  French,  very  light  and  agreeable:  and  I  liked 
my  old  hostess. 

I  had  a  very  cheery  letter  from  Colin  Davidson  from 
the  front,  where  he  is  very  happy.  He  spoke  much  of 
you  and  hoped  you  were  well  and  cheerful.  This  morn- 
ing at  3  A.M.  I  heard  four  explosions  out  at  sea  and  said: 
"There  the  Germans  are,  torpedoing  some  ship:  I 
suppose  they'll  send  our  letters  from  home  to  the  bot- 
tom." But  it  was  only  fog-bombs,  let  off  to  signal  the 
way  in  to  the  mail-boat  through  a  thick  mist. 

I  have  acquired  a  most  painful  habit  of  saying  awk- 
ward things.  The  other  night  I  was  introduced  to  a 
magnificent  old  French  Staff  Officer  as  bald  as  a  coot: 
and  he  said,  "I  have  admired  your  white  hair  so  much." 
"Oh  yes,  I've  plenty  of  them,"  I  replied  cheerfully. 
"And  I  none  at  all,"  he  remarked,  rather  grimly. 

And  I  was  sitting  talking  to  four  naval  officers  who 
have  all  been  here  since  the  beginning  of  the  war.  They 
spoke  of  a  young  Army  Service  Corps  officer  here,  and 
I  asked  what  his  work  was.  "Oh,  seeing  hay  unloaded 
from  England,"  they  told  me.  Then  I  said,  tactfully, 
"A  nice  safe  way  of  getting  the  war  medal."  You  should 
have  seen  those  four  faces.  Of  course  they'll  all  get  the 
medal,  too:  I  believe  they  thought  I  said  it  on  purpose. 
Mr.  B's  glass  eye  glared  in  its  socket. 


John  Ayscough^s  Letters  to  his  Mother       115 

Now  I   must  take  this  letter  off  to  the  post.     They 
have  to  be  there  by  six  or  they  lose  the  night  boat. 
With  best  love  to  Christie,  Alice,  Togo,  etc. 


Thursday  Afternoon,  March  18,  191 5 

I  ENCLOSE  two  more  letters  for  you  to  read  —  they 
need  neither  be  returned  or  kept. 

One  is  from  George .     His  wife  was  the  lady  who 

said  to  Lady  Auckland,  "Lady  Auckland,  why  do  you 
say  'Not  at  Home'  to  people  when  they  can  see  you  are 

in.?"    and  to  whom  Lady  A.    replied:    "Mrs. , 

why  do  you  paint  your  face  when  people  can  see  that  it 
is  painted.?" 

We  have  another  character  in  this  hotel  now:  the 
French  Commandant  of  the  place,  an  ancient  Colonel 
—  the  gentleman  to  whom  I  made  the  happy  remark 
about  my  abundant  white  hair.  He  is  splendidly  uni- 
formed, and  our  fellows  call  him  the  Chocolate  Soldier. 
I  never  met  such  a  talker;  he  grabs  you  and  keeps  you 
an  hour  or  two  while  he  gabbles.  Last  night  he  kept 
me  in  the  hall  till  everybody  else  was  in  bed. 

I  saw  the  hall-porter  cleaning  his  valises  this  morning 
and  observed  demurely,  "A  charming  person!" 

"He  talk  mosh  too  mosh,"  said  the  concierge  in  English, 
"nobody  don't  want  to  pay  no  spies  while  he  talk  — 
everything  told  for  nothing." 

He  is  a  very  flamboyant  Catholic,  and  is  supposed  to 
have  been  a  martyr  to  his  religion:  but  I  should  say  his 
tongue  had  something  to  do  with  it.  However,  he  is 
all  bows  and  amiability. 

After  luncheon  I  walked  to  Puys  again  —  because  it 
is  the  walk  by  which  you  can  get  at  once  into  the  country. 
I  am  sure  that  the  sea  has  washed  away  miles  of  those 
cliffs,  and  I  suppose  that  once  Hampshire  and  Sussex 
were  all  in  one  piece  with  this  land.  You  can  see  valleys 
that  have  evidently  lost  half  of  themselves  in  the  sea, 


Ii6       John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

quite  abruptly  ending,  not  verging  down  to  the  shore: 
and  you  can  see  other  pieces  of  cHfF  getting  ready  to  col- 
lapse into  the  sea. 

Puys  itself  is  to  me  the  most  dismal  sort  of  place  — 
a  crowd  of  chalets  and  villas,  all  shut,  not  one  house  open: 
and  no  small  houses  or  cottages:  not  one  house  that  is 
or  ever  was  anybody's  home;  houses  built  simply  as 
pleasure  resorts  for  a  few  summer  weeks.  Not  one  house 
that  ever  grew  there  out  of  anyone's  necessity,  as  farms 
grow,  and  cottages. 

It  is  a  coldish,  snappy  day,  with  a  raw  mist,  no  sun, 
and  a  nipping  wind  —  as  every  day  has  been  for  a  fort- 
night except  Sunday  and  Saturday,  which  were  en- 
chanting. 

Apropos  of  the  Army  Post  Office  address,  I  ought  to 
tell  you  that  supposing  by  any  chance  (which  I  pray 
may  not  be)  you  were  seriously  ill,  you  could  telegraph 
to  me  at  the  hotel  addressing  thus:  —  Monsignor  Bicker- 
staffe,  Grand  Hotel,  Dieppe. 

And  I  should  get  the  telegram  quite  soon. 

One  of  our  military  guests  here  had  a  mother  ill  and 
she  telegraphed  and  he  got  the  wire  very  soon  and  got 
leave  to  go  over  by  that  night's  packet. 

Now  I  must  trot  off  to  the  post  and  also  to  the  hospital 
where  I  have  already  been  this  morning  after  Mass. 

With  best  love  to  Christie  and  Alice. 

Friday,  March  19,  191 5 

I  AM  very  glad  the  pate  arrived  all  right  and  that  you 
found  it  good.  The  charcutier,  the  man  who  sells  all 
those  sorts  of  good  things  to  eat,  is  a  great  institution 
in  France. 

I  send  you  to-day  a  pate  tube  de  soldat:  it  does  not 
mean  a  pate  made  of  German  soldiers  slain  in  battle  — 
or  subsequently  for  the  table,  but  is  intended  as  a  little 
present  to  send  to  a  soldier. 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother        117 

I  have  sent  lots  of  French  soldiers  things  of  the  kind. 

The  point  for  the  soldier  is  that  it  needs  no  tin-opener, 
and  that  the  part  not  used  at  first  opening  doesn't  get 
spoiled  or  dirtied,  nor  does  it  grease  other  things.  The 
stuff  inside  is  very  good. 

It  is  bitterly  cold  here  to-day,  and  I  am  revelling  in  a 
fire,  the  first  I  have  seen  since  I  left  England.  I  have 
to  write  something  to-night,  and  last  night  I  found  I 
was  cold  so  that  I  could  not.  So  when  to-day  came  colder 
than  yesterday  I  told  them  I  must  have  a  fire,  or  change 
to  a  room  with  central  heating.  Now  I  have  a  lovely 
wood  fire.   .  .  . 

This  is  a  scrubby  little  letter,  but  I  viust  write  this 
evening,  and  first  there  is  the  journey  to  the  post  with 
this:    It  is  quite  a  mile  away! 

Monday,  March  22,  191 5 

I  AM  writing  this  from  Eu,  where  I  am  for  a  little 
outing  from  Dieppe  with  Captain  Benwell,  the  Naval 
Commandant.  We  had  luncheon  at  twelve,  caught  the 
one  o'clock  train  and  came  to  Treport.  .  .  .  Captain 
Benwell  had  to  come  and  inspect  the  place.  It  is  a 
pretty  journey  from  Dieppe,  and  Treport  is  pretty  too. 
The  old  church  stands  in  a  fine,  bold  position  on  a  rock 
over  the  little  port,  and  inside  it  is  very  beautiful:  out- 
side quaint  and  picturesque.  We  had  tea  at  Treport, 
and  walked  to  Eu;  about  three  miles  along  a  pretty 
road.  .  .  .  The  church  is  very  fine  indeed,  and  the 
chateau  is  close  to  it;  the  back  of  it  looks  on  the  church, 
the  principal  fa9ade  into  the  great  park.  It  is  a  royal 
residence;  it  was  the  special  family  residence  of  Louis 
Philippe,  and  it  was  there  that  he  entertained  Queen 
Victoria  and  the  Prince  Consort.  The  present  owner 
and  inhabitant  is  the  Comte  d'Eu,  grandson  of  Louis 
Philippe;  and  the  Comtesse  d'Eu  is  grand-daughter  of 
the  Emperor  of  Brazil.     I  expect  you  remember  another 


Ii8       John  Ayscouglo  s  Letters  to  his  Mother 

grandson  of  the  Emperor  of  Brazil,  Prince  Louis  of  Saxe- 
Coburg,  who  came  to  see  us  at  Plymouth  and  told  you 
that  he  was  used  to  speaking-trumpets  because  his  grand- 
mother the  Empress  of  Brazil  used  one. 

We  are  going  to  dine  in  this  inn,  and  then  catch  the 
train  which  leaves  for  Dieppe  at  eight-thirty  and  arrives 
there  about  ten.  I  have  made  Captain  Benwell  go  out 
for  a  walk  while  I  write  this.  I  must  say  I  enjoy  the 
Httle  change  and  outing. 

Here's  Captain  Benwell,  and  I  must  stop. 

Wednesday y  March  24,  191 5 

I  AM  so  glad  the  hats  arrived  safe,  and  gave  such 
satisfaction;  and  particularly  glad  to  think  that  you  had 
your  share  of  them.  Alice  tells  me  you  made  a  most 
engaging  summer  bonnet  out  of  the  two  Tuscan  straws: 
I  am  sure  they  would  not  lose  their  smartness  in  your 
hands. 

I  went  to  a  glover's  for  the  suede  gloves,  not  to  a  dra- 
per's, and  sent  you  the  pair  of  black  ones  by  this  morning's 
boat.  I  thought  the  thread  pair  might  do  (to  match 
the  Tuscan  straw!)  for  sitting  in  the  garden,  etc.  They 
are  not  common,  though  cheap. 

Yesterday  I  v/ent  to  Arques  again,  and  walked  up  the 
beautiful  wooded  valley  behind  the  castle,  away  from  the 
broad  main  valley  in  which  the  church  and  village  are: 
in  the  Middle  Ages  it  was  not  a  village  but  a  "bourg" 
more  important  by  far  than  Dieppe,  which  was  only 
a  fishing  village. 

I  took  a  paper  with  me,  and  read  it  sitting  by  the 
roadside,  alone  with  the  woods  and  the  throstles  that 
were  tuning  their  spring  songs.  Alas!  the  first  thing  I  saw 
in  the  paper  was  that  poor  little  McCurry,  the  youngest 
officer  in  our  Field  Ambulance,  was  killed  on  the  fifteenth. 
It  made  me  very,  very  sad.  He  was  such  a  bright, 
boyish  lad,  and  he  was  absolutely  devoted  to  me.     Before 


John  Ayscough^s  Letters  to  his  Mother        119 

the  war  he  was  one  of  Carson's  gun-runners,  and  of  course 
I  used  to  chaff  him  for  making  friends  with  a  terrible 
Popish  priest:  but  the  truth  was  he  hadn't  an  ounce 
of  prejudice  or  bigotry  in  his  whole  body:  he  only  went 
in  for  gun-running  for  fun,  just  as  he  came  out  to  the 
war  for  fun,  and  this  is  the  end  of  his  young  and  hopeful 
Hfe. 

I  was  really  ill  one  day,  and  only  one,  and  he  was 
kinder  and  more  tender  to  me  than  any  woman  could 
have  been;  indeed,  though  barely  twenty-one,  not 
twenty-one  then,  he  was  a  very  clever  doctor. 

The  night  I  left  he  came  to  my  room  and  said:  "Mon- 
signor,  I  had  to  come  and  see  you  alone  to  say  good-bye. 
Of  course,  I'm  only  a  kid,  and  I  don't  know  how  to  talk, 
and  I'm  not  clever  or  well-read;  but  none  of  them  have 
been  so  fond  of  you  as  I  am;  do  let  me  come  and  see  you 
in  England:  will  you.^  You  have  taught  me  to  look 
at  life  in  a  different  way,  and  shown  me  nobler  things 
to  live  for.  And,  O  dear  Monsignor,  I  do  love  you 
so  much." 

I  cannot  tell  you  how  it  horrified  me,  reading  of  his 
being  killed.  We  called  him  our  baby,  and  death  and 
he  seemed  to  have  nothing  to  say  to  each  other.  I 
came  home  very  sadly:  and  to-day  I  said  Mass  for  his 
brave  and  simple  soul. 

I  bought  more  cards  for  you  in  the  village  at  Arques, 
though  I  daresay  you  have  them  nearly  all. 

You  cannot  think  how  many  lovely  views  of  the  old 
ruined  castle  there  are  as  one  walks  up  that  valley. 
If  I  could  have  drawn  I  should  have  made  a  dozen  pic- 
tures; in  some  places  it  was  through  the  naked  boughs 
of  tall  trees  that  one  saw  the  stern  grey  fortress,  and  the 
afternoon  yellow  light  fell  on  it  and  them.  And  the 
exquisite  leafless  woods  are  all  spread  with  a  golden 
carpet  of  daffodils. 

I'm  glad  Father  M.  came,  and  that  you  and  he  are 
burying  your  very  uncalled-for  hatchet.  .  .  . 


I20       John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

Now  I  must  stop. 

Tell  Alice  and  Christie  about  poor  little  McCbutney, 
as  we  called  him;  I  have  often  made  them  scream  with 
laughter  over  him. 

March  25,  191 5 

"I  HOPE  you  are  quite  well,  as  this  leaves  me  at  present," 
and  I  really  don't  know  what  else  to  say! 

It  has  been  raining  all  day  to-day  and  yesterday, 
and  the  sea  looks  very  damp  and  cold.  But  this  is 
almost  the  first  rain  there  has  been  in  all  the  weeks  I 
have  been  here. 

Yesterday  after  luncheon  the  French  Commandant 
(the  brilhantly  uniformed  old  Hussar,  with  Eton-blue 
jacket  covered  with  embroidery  and  astrachan  fur,  and 
geranium-coloured  legs)  to  whom  I  made  my  brilliant 
remark  about  plenty  of  hair,  told  me  that  he  had  seventy 
or  eighty  German  prisoners  arriving  —  in  fact  just 
arrived.  I  said,  "Now,  mon  Colonel,  don't  be  unkind 
to  them."  He  seemed  to  think  it  very  funny,  and  got 
everyone  round  to  tell  them  how  Monsignor  had  forbidden 
him  to  maltreat  the  Boches.  After  dinner  he  told  me  he 
had  seen  them. 

"Mind,"  said  I,  "you  have  promised  to  be  nice  to 
them." 

He  skipped  with  amusement.  "You  shall  come  to 
see  them."  (That  was  just  what  I  wanted.)  "You 
shall  give  them  your  benediction." 

It  turned  out,  too,  that  one  of  them  had  been  servant 
to  a  friend  of  his,  and  they  had  recognised  each  other 
at  once. 

I  got  a  card  yesterday  from  the  little  wife  of  the  Bel- 
gian officer  who  was  here,  to  tell  me  she  had  got  as  far 
as  Holland  on  her  way  home. 

I  hate  telling  you  sad  things,  but  I  am  going  to  tell 
you   one:     yesterday   I    heard   that   one   of  the    French 


John  Ayscough^s  Letters  to  his  Mother        121 

soldiers,  convalescent  after  being  wounded,  in  one  of  the 
hotel-hospices  close  to,  had  received  the  order  to  go  back 
to  the  fighting  line.  Probably  he  had  been  here  since 
September.  The  poor  lad  hanged  hin>self.  Isn't  it 
horrible  to  think,  not  only  of  the  act,  but  of  the  unspeak- 
able anguish  of  mind  that  ended  in  it.^ 

My  poor  McCurry  killed,  nobly,  in  the  way  of  duty, 
all  his  hopeful  youth  finished,  that  was  sad  enough; 
but  how  much  more  horrible  to  think  of  this  ignoble 
way  of  exit,  in  evasion  of  duty,  of  one  whose  youth  was 
hopeless.  But  it  was  not,  I  am  sure,  mere  cowardice: 
it  was  simply  a  breaking-point  of  endurance,  reached 
after  long  horrors  of  anticipation.  To  go  hack  to  that 
awful  fighting,  remembering  it,  and  saved  from  it  by  a 
terrible  wound  —  the  thought  of  it  so  mfinitely  more 
unbearable  to  a  lonely,  morbid  mind  than  the  first  going 
to  it. 

For  that  poor  soul,  too,  I  said  Mass  to-day:  do  say 
a  prayer  for  him. 

There  is  another  little  French  dog  in  this  hotel  who 
wants  to  adopt  me,  but  I  won't  be  adopted;  I  was  too 
sad  when  I  lost  my  other  little  friend.  One  of  the  land- 
lord's many  daughters  saw  me  talking  to  him  and  said 
in  English,  "We  will  give  him  you  a  present.  'E  no- 
one's  dog.  'E  'ave  no  'ouse.  'E  come  from  no  place. 
'E  arrive,  no  one  sending  'im  no  invitation.  If  you 
'ave  'im,  you  will  be  the  welcome." 

But  I  pictured  how  welcome  "E"  would  be  to  Togo, 
and  what  fine  ructions  there  would  be  if  I  took  *'im" 
home. 

Poor  Httle  thing:  he  sits  and  looks  at  me  and  trembles 
all  over,  and  wags,  and  comes  forward,  and  stops,  and 
shivers:    he  has  a  ripe  experience  of  being  snubbed. 

I  promised  you  I  had  nothing  to  say  and  I  have  kept 
my  word! 

With  best  love  to  Christie  and  Alice  and  a  lump  of 
sugar  to  Togo. 


122       John  Ayscough's  "Letters  to  his  Mother 

March  26,  191 5 

I  HAVE  just  got  ready  for  the  post  (to-morrow  morn- 
ing's) another  pate  for  you,  and  put  in  five  tiny  cream- 
cheeses.  I  hope  the  little  packet  will  reach  you  safe  and 
soon.  After  luncheon  I  again  went  to  Puys,  my  favourite 
walk,  as  I  told  you,  because  one  gets  away  from  the 
town  quickest  that  way. 

But  this  time  I  went  by  the  shore,  which  takes  much 
longer:  it  is  horribly  rough  to  the  feet,  and  ruinous  to 
boots;  all  the  way  there  is  a  flat  floor  of  sharp  rock, 
and  at  the  base  of  the  cliffs  a  belt  of  deep  shingles  of 
flint.  Near  the  town  there  is  a  regular  colony  of  cave- 
dwellers,  and  they  all  look  miserably  poor,  starved, 
and  pale. 

The  rock  floor  is  of  a  white  stone,  chalk  I  suppose,, 
but  hardened  by  the  daily  weight  of  the  mass  of  tide 
upon  it,  and  it  is  pitted  with  innumerable  holes,  out  of 
which  the  waves  have  banged  the  flints:  these  holes  are 
sharp  and  disagreeable  to  walk  on.  Nearer  the  water 
the  flat  floor  of  rock  is  carpeted  with  millions  of  tiny 
mussels  equally  unpleasant  to  walk  upon  —  as  they  may 
think,  too. 

I  found  a  lonely  French  soldier  surveying  the  waves, 
and  we  sat  on  a  rock  and  talked.  He  comes  from  the 
far  south,  and  talked  very  odd  French.  I  consoled  him 
with  a  franc  and  a  bundle  of  cigarettes. 

It  was  a  lovely  day,  though  cold,  and  the  sea  and  coast 
line  looked  exquisite.  In  front,  after  yesterday's  wind 
and  rain,  the  water  was  Mississippi-colour,  brownish, 
muddy,  but  laced  with  snowy  lines;  beyond  these  came 
bands  of  meadow  green,  and  slaty-blue,  then  wonderful 
primrose  patches,  and  then,  under  the  horizon,  great 
expanses  of  sapphire-blue.  The  coast  line  is  really 
glorious,  the  cliffs  enormous,  curving  away  into  the 
clear  haze  where  only  their  tops  showed  like  veils  of 
yellow  cloud. 


John  Ayscough^s  Letters  to  his  Mother       123 

.  .  .  The  huge  building  is  the  hotel  full  of  wounded 
soldiers  now.  The  odd  terrace-line  at  the  top  of  the 
picture  is  half  a  Roman  camp,  the  other  half  long  ago 
fallen  into  the  sea  where  all  the  rest  will  follow.  At 
that  point  the  clifF  must  be  quite  five  hundred  feet  high. 

I  walked  back  by  the  fields  at  the  top  of  the  cliffs, 
very  glad  to  change  the  shingle  and  shag  for  the  smooth 
grass:   it  took  about  one  quarter  of  the  time. 

I  always  turn  in  to  the  little  votive  chapel  to  pray  for 
Ver  and  all  my  dear  comrades  out  at  the  front.  I  an- 
swered Dora  Hardy's  letter  to-day.  .  .  . 

I  must  stop:  with  best  love  to  Christie  and  Alice  — 
and  the  Admiral. 


Saturday y  March  27,  191 5 

There  is  now  no  mail  to  England  from  here  on  Sun- 
days, so  that  this  cannot  start  on  its  way  till  midday  on 
Monday:  but  to-morrow  evening  I  shall  be  out  in  the 
country,  holding  service  for  a  few  sheep  in  the  wilderness, 
so  I  write  now:  not  that  I  have  anything  to  say!  .... 

I  confess  my  writing  becomes  worse;  I  can't  approve 
of  my  way  of  crossing  my  final  t's,  but  I  can't  break 
myself  of  it. 

I  shall  continue  to  wear  my  hair  like  a  "nut"  till  you 
see  it;  then,  if  you  are  irreconcilable,  I  will  alter  it.  It 
makes  me  feel  as  if  I  had  walked  out  of  a  wood! 

It  is  cold  to-day,  and  I'm  revelling  in  a  wood-fire, 
which  makes  my  room  have  a  delightful  smell,  like  the 
smell  Captain  Cust's  study  used  to  have  in  winter  when 
I  was  a  child.  I  always  think  that  smell  exactly  the 
proper  thing  for  a  room,  and  now  it  carries  me  back 
much  more  than  forty-six  years  and  gives  me  a  double 
pleasure. 

I  am  going  to  send  you,  when  I've  finished  it,  a  book 
I  delight  in,  called  "Rural  Rides."  It  is  by  that  eccen- 
tric genius  called  William  Cobbett,  who  wrote  a  wonder- 


124       John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

ful,  popular,  vulgar,  but  very  clever  History  of  the 
Protestant  Reformation  in  England.  He  was  a  Protes- 
tant himself,  but  he  thought  Henry  VHI,  Elizabeth  and 
James  I  atrocities,  and  showed  up  their  dealings  with  their 
luckless  subjects  as  to  religion  in  a  fiery  fashion  that  no 
Catholic  writer  could  or  ever  did  approach. 

.  .  .  He  was  Hampshire  born,  and  the  "Rides"  are 
full  of  the  most  fascinating  descriptions  of  our  part  of 
England — Wiltshire  —  and  the  adjoining  parts  of  Hants, 
Berks,  Gloucester,  etc.  When  I  send  you  the  book  you 
are  not  to  toss  it  away  and  say,  ''It's  all  politics  and 
swedes  and  mangold-wurzels, "  for  the  bumble-puppy 
politics  don't  matter  sixpence  and  the  farming  is  all 
mixed  up  with  exquisite  appreciation  of  the  country, 
scenery,  woods,  trees,  etc.  He  was  a  frantic  radical  in 
his  day,  but  it  was  when  half  the  English  poor  were 
wretched,  and  no  social  reform  had  begun.  .  .   . 

I'm  so  glad  Father  Cashman  came:  I  like  him  very 
much  and  I  think  his  brogue  is  part  of  him,  and  suits 
him:    I  shouldn't  like  him  not  to  have  it. 

Christie  says  your  bonnet  is  lovely:  one  of  these  days 
I'll  get  you  a  new  veil  here  to  go  with  it.  .  .  , 

The  bay  at  Treport  is  very  wide;  under  the  cliffs  at 
one  end  is  Treport;  under  the  cliffs  at  the  other  end  is 
another  place  called  Mers. 

The  censor  looked  rather  glum  when  I  took  him  five 
or  six  envelopes  all  addressed  to  one  person:  but  I  didn't 
care,  as  they  went  off  all  right. 

One  day  a  soldier  wrote  twenty-eight  sheets  to  his  wife, 
on  purpose  to  give  the  censor  trouble.  The  censor  sent 
for  him  and  said:  "You  may,  of  course,  write  to  your 
wife;    but  you  may  not  compose  albums.'" 

No  letter  of  mine  has  been  opened  since  I  have  been 
here,  except  one  to  a  French  soldier,  and  that  was  my 
fault,  because  I  forgot  to  frank  it  with  my  name  outside. 
As  this  censor  doesn't  know  French  I  expect  it  bothered 
him. 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother       125 

French  people's  politeness  is  rather  funny:  one  day 
a  French  soldier  asked  me,  after  a  long  talk,  if  /  was 
French  (a  delicate  way  of  hinting  at  my  excellent  French). 
**Come,"  I  said,  *'do  let  us  be  sensible.  You  ask  me  if 
I  am  French.  How  long  did  it  take  you  to  know  very 
well  that  I  am  English?     Tell  the  truth." 

"y^w  premier  mot,  Monsieur,''  he  answered,  thus 
adjured! 

As  a  matter  of  fact  one  gets  little  practice  during  the 
war:  I  have  been  in  France  many  months,  and  I  don't 
suppose  that  I  have  talked  French,  or  had  any  chance 
of  talking  it,  for  anything  Hke  twenty-four  hours,  if  all 
the  times  were  added  together. 

Still,  I  had  nearly  forgotten  it  when  I  came  out  in 
August,  and  now  I  know  as  much  as  I  ever  did  know, 
which  wasn't  much. 

What  a  dull  letter!     I'd  better  go  to  dinner. 

Give  my  best  love  to  Christie  and  thank  her  for  her 
letter,  also  to  Alice  and  the  Admiral.  You  see,  I'm  get- 
ting economical  and  only  give  you  one  sheet  with  the 
chiffre  on  it.     Notepaper,  etc.,  is  very  dear  here. 

The  dentifrice  quite  cured  the  afflicted  part! 

March  29,  191 5 

Very  many  thanks  indeed  for  the  second  stock, 
which  arrived  safely,  and  without  any  crushing  or  spoil- 
ing, with  the  other  things.  The  parcels  reached  this 
place   on  Saturday  night,  and  were  delivered  yesterday. 

On  Sundays,  after  their  Mass,  the  Belgian  troops 
training  here  have  a  parade  on  the  grass  just  outside 
my  window,  and  I  watched  them  with  great  interest, 
then  went  out  and  watched  them  march  away  to  their 
barracks.  All  very  young,  from  eighteen  to  twenty- 
one,  but  really  wonderfully  business-like:  and  a  very 
good,  honest  set  of  faces,  like  fair  English  faces;  only 
here  and  there  a  sly  or  mean-looking  countenance. 


126       John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

Poor  things!  I  do  hope  the  nasty  old  war  will  not 
last  long  enough  to  swallow  them  all  up. 

This  morning  I  met  on  the  "plage"  that  Belgian  lady 
who  was  staying  here  when  I  first  came,  with  her  husband 
and  a  friend  or  sister,  and  we  had  a  long  talk.  (I  do 
not  mean  the  little  officer's  wife.)  They  have  taken  a 
villa  and  are  going  to  stop  here  till  the  v/ar  ends. 

She  is  really  nice,  a  lady  of  good  birth  and  position, 
and  very  like  an  Englishwoman  of  the  best  class.  She 
says  that  at  their  chateau  in  Belgium  four  hundred  and 
fifty  Germans  are  billeted. 

I  told  her  Dieppe  bored  me,  but  she  said,  "Your 
mother  must  be  glad  to  know  you  are  so  safe  and  so  com- 
fortable." I  know  it  is  so;  and  when  one  thinks  how 
many  of  one's  comrades  are  in  such  hourly  danger,  one 
ought   to  be  truly  thankful.     I  know  you  are. 

The  son  of  the  landlord  of  this  hotel  has  to  go  on 
Friday,  a  very  nice  lad  of  eighteen:  quite  a  gentleman, 
but  very  gentle  and  I  think  timid;  he  goes  to  Belfort, 
a  great  frontier-tovv^n  that  I  remember  visiting  long  ago  — 
in  1879,  I  think. 

Yesterday  I  met  in  the  street  that  little  soldier  whom  I 
found  so  eagerly  gathering  mussels  on  the  rocks  when 
I  first  came  here.  He  came  up  and  said:  "Monsieur, 
I  go  to-morrow;  first  home  to  see  my  people  in  the  south, 
then  back  to  the  front."  He  looked  a  little  blue  about 
it.  He  also  is  a  little,  delicate-looking  thing,  with  a 
face  like  a  very  innocent  child.  I've  often  seen  him 
playing  football  out  on  the  grass  in  front,  skipping  about 
like  a  young  gazelle.  I  asked  him  one  day  what  his 
trade  was  when  he  was  not  soldiering  and  he  said  "a 
hatter";  and,  as  he  looks  a  little  cracked,  I'm  sure  it's 
true. 

Last  night  I  motored  out  to  St.  Aubyn  to  give  a  very 
unconventional  service  to  some  stray  sheep  there,  and 
the  air  was  like  frozen  daggers.  However,  I  came  back 
to  a  roaring  wood-fire. 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother       127 

Now  I'm  going  to  look  up  some  other  stray  sheep. 
And  I  must  shorten  this  letter:  which  is  just  as  well,  as 
there  is  nothing  to  tell  you. 

So  good-night. 

March  30,  191 5 

I  RECEIVED  a  charming  letter  from  Miss  Stewart 
to-day  and  three  parcels  of  things,  for  myself  and  for 
the  men  —  chocolate,  cigarettes,  mittens,  etc.  She  is 
a  good  and  nice  little  woman. 

Also  I  received  the  rochet,  which  I  must  thank  you 
for  sewing  the  lace  onto.  It  came  all  right,  not  the 
least  squashed  or  tumbled.  Really  our  military  post 
is  very  good  and  much  quicker  than  the  civil  post.  .  .  . 

The  bitter  cold  winds  continue,  and  my  fire  continues! 
No  fear  of  my  putting  on  thin  clothes  yet. 

I  enclose  a  nice  letter  I  received  from  George  Parker. 
I'm  sure  he  is  a  nice  man.  But  I  laughed  at  his  saying, 
*'You  young  men." 

Also  I  enclose  a  letter  from  Sir  Charles  Fergusson,  not 
that  it  contains  anything  special,  but  I  want  you  to  see 
what  a  nice  and  good  man  he  is. 

I  am  not  going  to  try  and  write  a  letter  myself  now, 
because  I  feel  dull  and  headachy  (not  neuralgia,  or  at 
all  bad)  and  I  must  go  out  and  get  a  puff  of  air:  un- 
fortunately, the  puffs  are  so  strong  and  cold! 

Wednesday,  March  31,  191 5 

I  haven't  much  more  to  make  a  letter  out  of  to-night 
than  I  had  yesterday,  but  the  headache  is  quite  gone, 
the  day  is  bright  and  lovely,  and  I  feel  very  cheerful. 

Last  night  I  had  to  go  to  bed,  and  there  my  headache 
left  me  in  peace.  (I  don't  mean  that  other  nights  I 
do  not  go  to  bed,  but  that  last  night  I  retreated  thither 
directly  after  dinner.) 


128       John  Ayscough^s  Letters  to  his  Mother 

I'm  so  glad  the  gloves  were  what  you  wanted.  .  .  . 
As  to  the  Falaises  of  Varengeville,  they  are  about  three 
miles  from  here,  to  the  left  —  to  the  west.  Aren't  they 
fine?  I  walked  in  that  direction  after  luncheon  to-day, 
along  the  strand,  and  "E"  as  Alice  called  the  little  French 
dog,  bore  me  company.   .  .  . 

I  found  three  French  soldiers  devouring  mussels  by  the 
sea,  and  talked  to  them  for  ever  so  long.  They  had  all 
been  wounded,  two  of  them  in  the  thigh.  "And  where," 
I  asked  the  third,  "were  you  wounded.?"  "Near  Ypres," 
he  said.  "Yes;  but  in  what  part  of  your  body.?"  "Well, 
Monsieur,"  he  replied  discreetly,  "I'm  sitting  on  it." 
I  gave  them  chocolate  to  eat  instead  of  the  mussels,  and 
cigarettes  and  mittens. 

They  were  very  nice  fellows  and  talked  so  simply 
and  cheerfully  about  their  rough  life  at  the  front. 

I'm  sorry  Ver  is  in  hospital,  but  I  think  the  rest  will 
be  good  for  him. 

I  had  a  letter  from  Mr.  Gater  to-day  (and  one  from 
you).     He  tells  me  of  a  string  of  accidents  and  disasters. 

I  will  write  soon  to  Mrs.  G.,  but  it  is  really  Winifred 
I  owe  a  letter  to. 

The  sea  outside  looks  heavenly  and  the  sun  is  just 
dipping  his  extremely  red  nose  in  it.  About  sunset  there 
always  comes  on  a  peculiar  and  lovely  pearly  light, 
everything  takes  on  the  same  colour,  the  old  castle,  the 
cliffs,  the  air:  only  the  sea  is  dark  and  strong  in  colour: 
and  the  Western  Sea  is  noty  but  shrimpy-co\o\xvt^y  with 
long  bars  of  cinnamon,  primrose,  and  white. 

I  like  walking  along  the  shore,  but  it  is  ruinous  to  one's 
boots. 

Thank  you,  dear,  for  your  prayers  for  that  poor  lad 
who  hanged  himself.  I  do  not  fear  God's  mercy  for  him; 
only  I  think,  as  you  do,  of  the  long  and  lonely  anguish 
of  that  despair  that  led  to  his  doing  it,  and  it  seems  so 
horrible.  If  only  one  could  have  known!  One  friendly 
human  voice  might  have  made  such  a  difference. 


John  Ayscough' s  Letters  to  his  Mother        129 

One  reason  why  I  so  often  go  along  the  chfFs  to  Puys 
is  that  the  first  time  I  overtook  a  young  Gascon  — 
once  wounded,  cured,  and  sent  back  to  the  front;  then 
ill  of  typhoid  and  sent  here.  I  warned  him  not  to  walk 
at  all  near  the  edge  because  of  the  crumbly  soil,  and 
hollow  overhanging  summits,  and  he  said,  "What  an 
easy  place  pour  se  suicider.^'  And  I  stuck  to  him,  and 
only  left  him  when  he  met  comrades  going  home  and 
went  with  them.  I  don't  think  he  meant  anything: 
but  I  wondered;  I've  often  met  him  since,  but  never 
out  of  the  town,  and  he  always  seems  very  cheery. 

Now  I  must  go  off  to  post. 

With  best  love  to  Christie  and  Alice. 

Thursday y  April  i,  191 5 

I  HAVE  just  come  back  from  the  post,  whither,  having 
no  orderly,  I  have  to  go  and  fetch  my  letters  in  the 
morning,  as  well  as  to  post  them  in  the  evening.  It  is 
1 1. 1 5  A.M.,  and  at  12  I  have  to  go  and  dine  with  the 
"archpriest"  of  St.  Jacques. 

I  found  at  the  post  your  letter  telling  of  the  safe  arrival 
of  the  pate  and  the  tiny  cream  cheeses.  You  must  under- 
stand that  the  pates  were  not  both  the  same.  The  tube 
seems  to  have  lasted  wonderfully:  was  its  inside  good.? 
I  know  the  pates  in  the  "tureens"  but  not  the  tubes. 

It  is  quite  a  heavenly  day  to-day:  mild,  creamy  air, 
exquisite  sunlight,  and  a  delightful  air  of  hope  and  resur- 
rection over  the  country. 

From  the  windows  there  seems  to  be  no  sea:  but  a 
sky  that  comes  up  to  the  shore,  and  up  in  it  spirits  of 
good  ships  glorified,  bound  on  no  tedious  voyages  of 
profit,  but  cruising  for  sheer  love  and  memory. 

But  when  you  go  out  and  stand  by  it,  there  the  sea  is, 
pulsing,  not  moving,  waveless,  not  even  lapping  on  the 
strand,  but  lying  against  it  as  lake-water  lies  against  its 
banks. 


130       John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

There  were  seventeen  craft  awaiting  high-tide  to  go 
up  behind  the  town  into  the  hidden  harbours,  one  of 
them  a  three-masted  schooner.  About  fifty  yards  from 
the  beach  there  was  a  diver,  with  snow-white  breast 
and  coal-black  back,  both  gleaming  in  the  sun,  standing 
up  in  the  water,  splashing,  swishing,  fooling,  just  for 
fun  and  pleasure. 

There  I  sat  and  read  your  letter.  It  does  cheer  me  so 
to  see  you  cheerful.  I  must  say  this  is  a  lovely  place, 
and  though  dull,  I  enjoy  it. 

You  are  not  to  imagine  that  the  fields  on  the  way  to 
Puys  slope  down  to  the  top  of  the  cliffs;  at  the  top  of 
them  they  are  as  flat  as  pancakes.  No  fear  of  slipping 
down. 

5    P.M. 

Now  I  am  finishing  my  letter  up  in  my  ov/n  room. 

The  midday  dinner-party  at  the  archpriest's  was  much 
more  agreeable  than  I  anticipated.  There  were  six  of  us, 
and  the  dinner  not  at  all  stodgy.  No  meat,  but  various 
dishes  of  eggs,  fish,  vegetables,  etc.:  and  the  company 
very  pleasant. 

The  archpriest  is  just  my  age,  and  very  glad  not  to  be 
younger,  as  he  is  safe  from  being  snapped  up  for  a  soldier. 
His  curate,  of  whom  I  told  you,  a  little  Redemptorist 
monk  of  forty-four  years  old,  was  suddenly  called  off 
yesterday.  I  can't  picture  him  in  uniform,  he  looked 
such  a  typical  little  monk. 

The  archpriest  is  a  clever  old  boy,  with  a  sharp  and 
rather  stinging  wit,  but  not  maUcious. 

They  were  all  complimenting  me  on  the  devotion  and 
attention  of  my  soldiers  at  Mass.  One  of  them  laughed, 
and  said,  "Perhaps  they  do  not  listen  so  attentively  to 
everybody:  they  tell  me  Monsignor  is  worth  listening 
to."  But  I  assured  them,  what  is  true,  that  it  made  no 
difference;  English  soldiers  would  always  listen  with  the 
same  simple  and  devout  attention  to  any  priest. 


John  Ayscoiiglo  s  Letters  to  his  Mother        131 

By  the  same  post  with  your  letter  came  another  from 
-,  and  that  one  I  think  need  not  be  answered.    She 


loves  inditing  portentous  epistles  full  of  mysteries  and 
shockdoms. 

I  came  back  to  the  hotel  after  luncheon,  and  picked 
up  Lady  ^.,the  French  dog,  with  whom  I  went  for  another 
walk  along  the  shore  towards  Varengeville,  i.e.,  the  direc- 
tion opposite  to  Puys. 

This  morning  one  could  not  have  gone  that  way,  the 
tide  was  up  to  the  foot  of  the  cliffs.  As  I  went  to  the 
archpriest's  house  in  the  town  I  passed  along  the  basins, 
or  at  least  the  pre-port  .  .  .  the  water  was  up  to  within 
eighteen  inches  of  the  brim,  and  it  looked  very  nice. 
There  were  some  little  English  ships,  and  I  chaffed  the 
sailors,  and  asked  if  I  might  not  step  on  board  and  be 
a  stowaway. 

.  .  .  The  Casino  at  the  other  end  of  the  "plage" 
is  now  a  hospital,  as  are  all  the  hotels,  except  this,  upon 
the  sea-front. 

I  believe  Dieppe  was  a  beautiful  mediaeval  town  till 
1694,  when  we  English  with  the  Dutch  (it  was  under 
William  of  Orange)  bombarded  it  and  utterly  destroyed 
two  thousand  houses.  The  royal  architect  under 
Louis  XIV  laid  out  a  new  town,  with  all  the  houses  much 
alike  —  and  not  one  with  a  staircase! 

I  am  sending  you  the  "Rural  Rides":  don't  begin  at 
the  beginning,  but  at  page  323.  You  will  like  the  Wilt- 
shire descriptions.     Never  mind  the  roaring  poHtics! 


April  2,  191 5 

I  HAVE  written  such  a  lot  of  letters,  and  it  is  so  late 
that  I  must  make  this  a  short  one,  which  is  all  the  easier 
that  I  have  nothing  to  tell  you! 

This  morning  I  received  your  letter  promising  to  read 
"Rural  Rides"  which  I  had  just  posted  to  you.     I  hope 


132       John  Ayscough^s  Letters  to  his  Mother 

you  won't  say,  "How  can  he  like  this  book,  with  its 
endless  tirades  against  the  clergy,  National  Debt,  etc.!" 

I  like  it  because  of  its  intense  feehng  for  rural  England, 
and  also  for  its  sympathy  Avith  the  English  peasant, 
who  often  in  those  days  had  to  feed  himself,  his  wife  and 
children  on  five  or  six  shillings  a  week,  pay  rent,  buy 
fuel,  clothes,  foot-wear,  etc.  Cobbett's  Hne  is  simply 
this,  "Much  wants  to  be  done:  nothing  can  be  done 
except  by  Parliament:  and  what  hope  is  there  of  such 
a  Parliament.^" 

Old  Sarum,  with  no  inhabitants,  returned  two  Members 
to  Parliament,  and  hundreds  of  members  represented  other 
"boroughs,"  with  three,  four,  or  a  dozen  inhabitants,  who 
perhaps  had  no  votes.  The  Members  were  simply  sent 
up  by  the  man  who  owned  the  land. 

His  politics  are  often  sheer  rubbish:  but  they  are 
generally  a  sort  of  sympathy  for  helpless  people,  gone 
mad.  I  believe  the  parish  clergy  he  abuses  were  then 
mainly  an  inferior  and  selfish  set:  it  was  long  before  the 
Oxford  movement  had  regenerated  them. 

His  whole  argument  is  this,  "Here  is  a  starving  people 
and  here  is  corn  enough  to  feed  a  nation  twenty-five 
times  more  numerous:  this  must  be  wrong." 

After  it  I  am  trying  to  read  again  "Tom  Brown  at 
Oxford,"  which  I  read  last  forty-five  years  ago  and  hked 
very  much:    I  find  it  rather  tedious  now. 

"Lady  A."  is  sitting  by  my  fire,  whence  she  comes 
on  her  hind  legs  begging,  not  for  sugar,  but  to  be  taken 
out  for  a  walk.     So  I  shall  take  her  to  the  post. 

She  is  much  nicer  than  her  dowager  namesake,  and 
far  more  amusing  company.  But  unlike  the  dowager 
she  has  a  tendency  to  produce  puppies,  and  did  so  two 
or  three  months  ago.  However,  they  are  all  drowned, 
and  she  has  forgotten  the  episode. 

I  hope  it  will  be  fine  enough  for  you  to  wear  the  new 
bonnet  on  Easter  Sunday.     I  shall  wear  the  new  stock. 

I  must  be  off  to  post. 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother       133 


Easter  Sunday,  191 5 

I  HAVE  just  written  to  Pierce  and  to  Harold  Skyrme, 
who  wrote  me  a  nice  letter  from  Devonport.  When  I 
was  a  small  boy  I  used  sometimes,  writing  from  school, 
to  ask  for  a  few  stamps:  would  you  send  me  a  few  now, 
not  many,  say  six  penny  ones  and  six  halfpenny?  When 
one  writes  to  any  place  beyond  England,  like  New  Zea- 
land or  America,  one  has  to  put  on  a  penny  stamp. 

If  any  of  these  cards  about  dead  priests  come,  be  sure 
to  send  them  on  at  once,  as  I  am  bound  to  say  Mass  for 
the  departed  soul. 

Yesterday  it  rained  hard  all  day,  and  so  it  did  all  this 
morning,  but  stopped  about  one,  so  the  men  got  their 
football  outside  on  the  grass  here,  this  afternoon.  I 
had  a  good  many  men  at  Mass  to-day,  more  than  last 
Sunday  and  there  were  a  good  many  then.  I  said  two 
Masses,  both  in  St.  Jacques:  a  parish  Mass  at  eight, 
and  then  the  soldiers'  Mass  at  ten. 

The  hotel  is  rather  full  now,  but  no  one  who  looks 
very  interesting.  The  Scarlet  Lady  and  her  husband 
have  turned  up  again:  and  there  is  another  painted  lady, 
an  Anglo-Indian,  between  fifty  and  sixty,  with  a  face  like 
an  angry  bird.  Captain  Benwell  tells  me  he  had  a 
passage  of  arms  with  her  (I  don't  mean  embraces).  He 
has  a  caustic  tongue,  and  I  fancy  he  told  her  this  was  no 
time  or  place  for  such  tourings.  However,  she  launches 
hungry  smiles  at  him.  There  is  also  a  terrible,  though 
not  bad-looking,  young  Jew,  with  a  wife:    both  English. 

I  managed  yesterday  and  to-day  to  take  "Lady  A." 
for  a  brief  walk:  but  she  is  just  as  unreasonable  as  Togo 
and  comes  up  here  at  bed-time  with  violent  entreaties 
to  be  taken  for  another  walk.  Captain  Benwell  tried 
to  take  her  out  this  afternoon,  but  she  would  not  go, 
and  he  was  rather  offended. 

Into  my  last  letter  I  stuck  two  large  pages  of  natural 


134       John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

history  out  of  the  Field.  I  wonder  if  you  said  I  was  crazy? 
I  thought  they  might  interest  you. 

I  heard  from  my  late  Commanding  Officer  to-day:  he 
is,  as  I  knew  he  would  be,  very  sad  about  dear  Httle 
McCurry's  death.  The  poor  boy  was  crazy  to  get  men- 
tioned in  despatches. 

They  have  started  an  English  Club  here,  and  as  they 
have  not  actually  asked  me  to  join,  I  shall  not.  It  would 
bore  me  stiff. 

It  is  not  the  principal  chaplain's  fault  I  have  not  gone 
home,  or  the  Cardinal's:  the  War  Office  won't  let  any  of 
us  go  home  for  the  present.  So  you  must  console  your- 
self with  the  thought  that  I  am  in  safe  and  pleasant 
quarters,  and  with  the  thought  that  if  you  were  really 
ill  I  could  get  hom.e  from  this  place  very  quickly.  Except 
on  Sundays  there's  a  boat  from  here  every  midday  and 
it  gets  to  Folkestone  in  four  hours.  For  that,  if  need 
were,  which  I  trust  will  not  be,  you  could  telegraph 
direct  to  m^e  at  Grand  Hotel,  Dieppe.  I  only  tell  you 
this  lest  you  should  fear  the  A.  P.  O.  address  would  make 
a  delay. 

I  must  stop  and  get  ready  for  dinner.  No  fish,  thank 
goodness. 

Easter  Monday,  April  5,  19 15 

Another  day  of  rain  —  a  very  dirty  day  at  sea,  I 
expect,  to  judge  from  the  part  one  sees  from  this  window. 
The  wet  weather  spoils  a  "Kermesse"  there  was  to  have 
been  this  afternoon  at  the  Casino.  A  Kermesse  is  the 
French  form  of  bazaar,  and  the  proceeds  w^ere  to  go  to 
the  Red  Cross  charities. 

Just  opposite  me,  not  many  hundred  yards  out  from 
the  shore,  is  a  small  transport  that  brought  horses,  etc., 
over  yesterday  and  is  waiting  for  dark  to  run  across  to 
England.  I  should  like  to  be  going,  too  —  but  not  in 
this  weather. 

I  said  Mass  for  you  this  morning,  as  I  very  often  do, 


John  Ayscouglj  s  Letters  to  his  Mother        135 

and  it  was  a  parish  Mass,  i.e.,  said  for  the  convenience 
of  a  congregation,  and  I  gave  Holy  Communion  to  about 
three  hundred  people,  including  a  good  many  men,  and 
some  soldiers  —  French.  The  soldiers  seemed  very  de- 
vout and  nice. 

Last  night  I  had  a  talk  with  the  little  French  Com- 
mandant d'Armes.  He  loves  to  buttonhole  you,  and 
I  should  like  it  very  well  if  he  did  not  talk  so  very  quickly 
that  I  find  it  hard  to  follow  him.  He  is  a  handsome  little 
creature,  with  very  bright  blue  eyes  and  a  bright,  not 
red,  complexion.  His  name  is  Comte  du  Manoir:  and 
he  is  of  a  very  old  family  in  Calvados.  Fie  knows  the 
present  Comte  and  Comtesse  Clary,  but  not  our  old 
friend.  The  French  Naval  Comm^andant,  who  sits  at 
the  same  table  with  him  is  also  very  nice,  but  very 
English-looking  and  also  very  quiet.  His  name  is  de 
Castries  (pronounced  de  Castre),  a  very  famous  name, 
the  elder  brother  Duke  de  Castries.  Comte  du  Manoir 
seemed  quite  impressed  at  my  knowing  all  about  these 
various  people  and  where  their  name  comes  in  in  history, 
etc. 

He  is  not  a  Republican,  and  wants  a  monarchy,  but 
doesn't  he  wish  he  may  get  it!  I  think  Europe  is  much 
more  inclined  to  get  rid  of  its  kings  than  to  set  up  new 
ones. 

He  told  me  an  odd  instance  of  presentiment.  In 
the  war  of  1870  he  was  twenty  years  old,  and  was  on 
service  as  an  officer;  the  Duke  de  Castries  (elder  brother 
of  the  Naval  Commandant  here)  was  his  comrade,  and 
they  slept  in  the  same  tent,  on  the  ground.  One  night 
de  Castries  woke  him  up  and  said,  "Listen,  I  want  to 
tell  you  something."  "And  I,"  said  du  Manoir,  "want 
to  sleep."  "You  can  sleep:  but  I  am  going  to  be  killed; 
and  I  wanted  to  tell  you.  Now  I  shall  go  out  and  walk!" 
After  walking  for  a  while  he  came  back,  lay  down  and 
slept  till  morning.  When  morning  came  he  was  killed. 
He  was  the  eldest  of  eighteen  brothers  and  sisters. 


136       John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

There  are  five  torpedo-boats  and  destroyers  cruising 
round  the  empty  transport  —  in  case  of  submarines 
I  suppose;  they  look  very  business-Hke;  I  expect  they 
are  come  to  convoy  her  across  the  Channel. 

Sir  Edward  Grey's  reply  to  the  German  message, 
transmitted  through  New  York,  about  our  "special 
treatment"  of  submarine  prisoners  was  very  cold  and 
crushing,  wasn't  it? 

"They  are  being  treated  with  humanity  and  kindness: 
but  our  ships  have  saved  the  lives  of  over  a  thousand 
German  sailors  and  naval  officers,  often  at  great  risk  to 
themselves,  and  not  one  English  sailor  has  been  saved 
by  the  German  ships." 

Of  the  priests  killed  in  cold  blood  by  the  Germans  in 
Belgium  only,  over  fifty  were  killed  without  the  least 
pretence  at  any  trial,  even  the  roughest  form  of  court 
martial.  This  is  an  instance:  after  a  battle  three  priests 
went  to  the  German  senior  officer  and  asked  leave  to  go 
out  and  bring  in  German  wounded.  He  gave  them  a 
pass,  and  they  went.  On  reaching  the  place  where  the 
wounded  were,  with  three  waggons,  they  showed  their 
pass  to  the  German  officer  there,  and  he  said,  "Fill  your 
waggons  then,"  and  they  did:  as  soon  as  they  had  told 
the  drivers  where  to  take  the  waggons  the  German 
officer  ordered  all  three  priests  to  be  shot,  as  they  were. 
There  was  no  charge  of  any  sort  brought  against  them. 

I  see  that  when  the  new  Belgian  Minister  to  the  Holy 
See  had  his  official  reception  by  the  Pope,  to  present  his 
credentials,  his  speech  was  a  very  strong  indictment  of 
the  German  army  of  occupation  of  Belgium;  and  of 
course  it  had  been  submitted  to  the  Pope  beforehand, 
so  that  his  listening  to  it  at  all,  and  his  making  no  protest, 
was  very  significant,  in  his  position  as  a  strict  neutral. 

I  think  the  Germans  have  the  same  disease  that  afflicts 
mad  dogs. 

Nevertheless,  I  told  you  several  weeks  ago  that  if  we 
accorded   any  treatment   to  submarine   prisoners   meant 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother       137 

to  mark  them  as  pirates,  our  officers  in  Germany  would 
have  to  pay  for  it:  and  you  see  they  declare  that  it  shall 
be  so. 

I'm  sorry  to  see  young  Mapplebeck  is  now  a  prisoner 
in  their  hands.  Do  you  remember  him.^  A  very  tall, 
but  very  young  Flying  officer  who  spent  half  a  Sunday 
with  us  when  recovering  from  an  aeroplane  accident? 

I  made  Captain  Benwell  laugh  by  asking  him  if  the 
Anglo-Indian  lady,  like  an  angry,  painted  old  bird,  does 
not  glare  at  the  public  as  if  she  were  saying,  "Why  don't 
you  propose  to  me,  cuss  you?" 

I  must  really  stop. 

I  think  you  get  more  talk  with  me  now  I'm  in  France 
than  when  I  am  at  home.  Don't  forget  to  send  that 
MS.  from  the  Northern  Newspaper  Syndicate. 

As  for  book  catalogues,  send  me  the  outside  leaves  or 
the  addresses  of  one  of  each  and  I  will  tell  them  to  send 
me  them  here  direct.  As  for  seeds  —  if  you  have  ordered 
those  you  have  marked,  it  is  about  all  you  will  need. 
Order  plenty  of  Kosmos. 

Easter  Tuesday 

Just  a  line  to  show  you  I  am  not  ill  or  anything  —  and 
then  to  bed.  I  am  very  sleepy  and  it  is  late.  I  spent  a 
long  time  to-day  visiting  a  French  hospital  and  talking 
to  the  poor  wounded  fellows  one  by  one,  and  giving 
them  things.  When  I  came  in  I  had  to  write  business 
letters  and  now  it  is  late  and  I  must  go  to  bed.  I'm  quite 
well  and  had  your  letter  of  Good  Friday  to-day. 

Wednesday,  April  7,  191 5 

I  NEARLY  put  off  my  letter  till  too  late  again:  I  had 
written  nine  or  ten  others,  and  was  just  about  to  begin 
yours  when  the  senior  R.  C.  chaplain  and  his  A.  D.  C, 
another  chaplain,  arrived  in  a  motor-car,  on  a  sort  of 
tour    of    inspection.  ...  I    nearly    did    for    myself    by 


138       John  Ayscough^s  Letters  to  his  Mother 

forgetting,  as  it  was  rather  late,  to  oflFer  them  tea.  How- 
ever, I  did  remember.  ...  I  told  them  of  my  various 
doings  and  they  seemed  to  approve.  .  .  . 

The  photograph  is  poor,  dear,  young  McCurry.  His 
father  sent  it  with  a  most  grateful  letter.  But  I  can 
hardly  bear  to  look  at  it,  and  you  can  keep  it  for  me. 
Doesn't  he  look  a  boy! 

There  have  been  three  French  submarines  here  to-day 
and  I  saw  them  in  the  dock:  I  had  never  seen  any  before. 
Of  course  I  saw  them  on  the  surface,  and  they  looked 
rather  like  very  long  torpedo-destroyers. 

I  told  you  that  I  spent  yesterday  afternoon  visiting 
the  wounded  French  soldiers  in  one  of  the  hospitals  — 
it  is  run  by  English  doctors  and  nurses:  and  it  is  where 
the  two  Misses  La  Primaudaye  are  nursing.  The  men 
were  very  nice,  and  I  was  glad  to  find  that  they  were  all 
keen  to  get  back  to  their  comrades  in  the  fighting  line: 
the  poor  lad  who  hanged  himself  was  no  specimen  of  their 
general  feeling.  The  Misses  La  P.  were  rather  inclined 
to  lionise  me  for  the  benefit  of  the  men,  so  I  told  them  to 
be  off,  and  got  on  much  better  without  them.  No 
soldiers  care  to  be  patronized,  and  told  that  their  visitor 
is  a  prelate,  etc.,  and  least  of  all  French  soldiers;  they 
are  so  simple  and  unsnobby  themselves.  After  all,  they 
are  republicans,  and  titles  and  grandeurs  are  more  apt  to 
set  their  backs  up  than  to  impress  them:  but  they  do 
understand  kindness  and  frankness. 

The  hospital  is  extremely  well  managed  and  the  men 
were  uncommonly  comfortable. 

Monsignor  Keatinge  gave  me  the  name  and  address 
of  a  first-rate  American  dentist  at  Boulogne,  who  charges 
officers  nothing,  and,  as  I  ought  to  have  two  bad  old 
stumps  out,  I  shall  go  there  some  day  soon.  I  can't  go 
there  and  back  in  one  day,  so  it  is  possible  if  I  go  at  a 
moment's  notice  you  may  be  without  a  letter  for  a  post 
or  two  posts.     Trains,  except  to  Paris,  are  so  slow  here. 

I  must  stop  and  change  for  dinner. 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother       139 

Thursday,  April  8,  191 5 

At  last  the  rain  has  stopped  and  we  have  had  a  fine 
day,  at  the  cost  of  a  tearing  wind  that  has  blown  the 
rain  away.  After  breakfast  I  went  to  the  post  to  get 
my  letters,  and  to  post  those  I  wrote  last  night.  I  found 
yours  of  Easter  Monday  which  I  read  while  waiting  for 
Mr.  Hill,  who  had  gone  with  me:  he  is  the  senior  Church 
of  England  chaplain  and  a  very  honest,  nice  man.  We 
sit  at  the  same  table  and  are  excellent  friends.  But  he 
cannot  help  talking  to  every  one  he  sees,  and  at  great 
length,  so  it  takes  a  long  time  to  get  him  down  any  street, 
at  least  any  street  where  there  are  English  people,  for  he 
cannot  talk  French,  though  he  takes  regular  lessons. 
His  instructress  says  she  longs  to  shake  him,  and  I  bid 
him  beware  lest  she  should  marry  him,  to  have  the 
right  to  do  it  at  her  ease. 

After  luncheon  I  walked  —  west,  by  the  shore,  and 
enjoyed  it  very  much.  You  mustn't  imagine  it  is  here  a 
long,  dull  straight  wall  of  cliffs:  they  advance  and  recede 
and  are  of  very  unequal  heights,  some  like  huge  round 
towers:  according  as  they  are  made  of  pure  hardish 
chalk,  or  of  chalk  with  deep  "faults"  of  marl  in  them, 
for  the  rains  and  frosts  rot  these  marl  deposits,  they  fall 
and  leave  the  chalk  standing  up  like  ramparts  and 
turrets. 

The  high  spring  tides  have  left  a  nice  deposit  of  sand 
and  it  was  easy  and  pleasant  going. 

The  sea,  very  brown  in  front,  but  breaking  up  into 
cream-white  lines  of  foam,  was  all  sorts  of  lovely  colours 
besides,  Nile-green,  meadow  green,  sapphire  blue  and 
pure  cobalt:  no  purples  to-day.  The  sea  was  very  rough 
and  I  did  not  want  to  be  on  it. 

A  good  way  along  the  shore  I  came  upon  a  cave,  like 
a  smugglers'  cave  in  a  romance,  and  perhaps  used  as  one 
once.  It  had  a  sort  of  sloping  entrance-hall  and  one 
regular  room  with  fireplace  carved  out  of  the  rock,  but 


140       John  Ayscoiigh' s  Letters  to  his  Mother 

no  "troglodytes,"  no  inhabitants.  It  was,  at  its  lowest 
point,  six  or  eight  feet  above  the  highest  shore  outside, 
and  ran  up  to  sixteen  or  twenty  feet. 

The  only  sea-creatures  I  saw  were  mussels  (millions), 
shrimps  (millions),  a  few  star-fishes,  and  a  very  few 
sea-anemones. 

I  came  back  by  the  shore,  too,  and  much  more  quickly 
with  the  strong  gale  blowing  me  along.  On  the  grass 
outside  were  some  French  children  drilling,  and  they  were 
very  funny  and  very  clever.  I  stood  and  watched  them; 
so  did  a  young  French  private  soldier,  and  we  began  to 
talk.  He  is  a  gentleman,  and  was  working  a  sort  of 
ranch  of  his  own  in  Argentina,  when  the  war  broke  out, 
so  he  came  home  to  fight.  We  went  for  a  turn  and  then 
came  back  and  I  gave  him  tea.  That  sounds  odd  to 
English  ears,  but  it  is  not  so  here,  where  you  often  see 
officers  (French)  walking  in  the  streets  with  soldiers  — 
because  of  the  army  containing  men  of  every  class,  and 
perhaps  because  of  the  fact  that  this  is  a  Republic.  His 
father  is  fighting,  and  his  only  brother,  too.  I  found  he 
could  talk  a  little  English,  but  not  much:  and  I  also 
found  him  a  strong  monarchist.  He  liked  his  tea,  and 
he  liked  the  talk  with  someone  of  his  own  class. 

This  is  St.  Albert's  Day  and  the  Belgian  troops  were 
reviewed  on  the  "plage"  at  noon;  not  so  interesting  as 
an  English  review,  but  also  much  shorter. 

Before  that  I  had  taken  Hill  to  examine  a  curiosity 
shop,  as  he  hasn't  French  enough  to  do  it  comfortably 
by  himself.  I  did  not  buy  anything,  but  I  think  he 
wanted  to  buy  everything.  However,  I  wouldn't  hear 
of  it! 

I'm  glad  you  liked  the  natural  history  pages  out  of  the 
Field.  I  thought  them  interesting  and  the  illustrations 
excellent. 

Lord  Glenconner  tells  me  that  his  wife's  nephew, 
George  Wyndham,  has  been  killed:  it  is  sad  and  strange 
too,  for  poor  young  Percy  Wyndham  made  him  his  heir. 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother       141 

Thus  Clouds  has  had  four  masters  in  less  than  four 
years,  old  Mr.  Percy  W.,  his  son  Mr.  George  Wyndham, 
young  Percy,  and  his  cousin  George.  Lord  G.  says  it  is 
a  great  shock  to  Lady  Glenconner. 


Friday,  5.30  p.m.,  April  9,  191 5 

All  Alice's  parcels  arrived  in  good  time,  and  I  have 
just  written  to  thank  her:  at  the  same  time  your  letter 
enclosing  the  stamps,  enough  to  last  a  long  while,  which 
will  be  very  useful  from  time  to  time.  Thank  you  very 
much. 

Of  the  things  I  have  sent  you  to  eat  which  do  you  like 
best?     So  that  I  can  send  some  more. 

To-day  has  been  a  repetition  of  yesterday  —  kept  fine 
by  a  boisterous,  westerly  gale,  with  one  very  fierce  but 
very  brief  hail-storm. 

After  luncheon  I  repeated   my  yesterday's  walk  along 

the  shore  nearly  to   P ,  but  soon   after  I   started   a 

young  French  soldier  came  running  up  and  joined  on, 
and  so  my  walk  was  not  solitary.  He  is  not  the  one  of 
yesterday  —  the  gentleman  —  his  name  is  Gerard 
Brulard:  the  one  of  to-day  is  called  Ernest  Richer,  and 
he  is  a  chasseur-a-pied.  In  a  few  days  he  goes  back  to 
the  front.  I  met  him  first  a  week  ago  helping  some 
peasants  to  pick  flints  on  the  shore.  I  asked  him  what 
they  did  with  them,  and  he  says  they  are  sent  to  china- 
factories,  broken  up  small,  then  melted.  I  know  that 
flints  do  enter  into  the  prescription  of  some  sorts  of 
porcelain.  They  only  use  the  black  ones.  I  showed 
him  some  very  translucent  stones  /  had  picked  up  and 
he  said,  "There  are  very  few  like  that."  On  the  contrary 
it  seems  to  me  there  are  millions.  I  am  going  to  ask  if 
there  is  any  lapidary  here  and  see  if  any  of  those  I  find 
are  worth  the  cost  of  polishing. 

These  two  lads,  almost  exactly  the  same  age,  Richer 


142       yohn  Ayscoiiglo  s  Letters  to  his  Mother 

of  to-day  and  Brulard  of  yesterday,  are  of  quite  different 
types.  Richer  a  peasant  and  quite  uneducated,  Brulard 
a  gentleman  and  both  clever  and  well-educated:  but 
both  have  the  same  excellent  French  naturalness  and 
simplicity.  In  the  things  most  people  go  by,  as  to 
French  good  manners,  I  myself  think  the  English  have 
as  good  or  better;  but  I  couldn't  go  for  a  walk  with  a 
Wiltshire  village  lad  vv^ithout  finding  him  either  very 
lumpish  or  rather  bumptious:  these  French  soldiers 
perfectly  know  the  difference  of  station,  etc.,  but  don't 
think  about  it. 

(There  is  a  fastened-up  door  between  this  room  and 
the  next,  and  the  people  in  it  have  gone  out  and  left 
their  window  open:  the  result  is  that  through  the  keyhole 
there  is  a  noise  coming  like  the  pufF  of  a  fog-horn !) 

I  certainly  shall  not  make  friends  —  you  need  not 
warn  me  —  with  the  ancient  Paint  Box;  she  is  truly 
frightful,  Fd  much  rather  talk  to  a  Black  Maria.  As  a 
matter  of  fact  I  don't  make  friends  with  any  of  our  lady 
guests,  though  most  of  whom  are  very  quiet,  middle-aged 
French  women,  with  husbands  to  match.  Very  few 
stay  more  than  a  few  days. 

I  laughed  at  your  saying  that  you  want  to  smack 
Cobbett  when  he  gets  to  his  political  tirades:  but  he  is 
very  fond  of  us,  if  you  mean  by  us,  Catholics.  His  little 
inconsistencies  are  funny;  for  instance,  he  says  that 
running  about  from  place  to  place  is  the  ruin  of  people's 
happiness  and  character  (what  would  he  say  in  these 
motoring-days?)  and  he  himself  is  perpetually  gadding 
about  on  that  marvellous  horse  of  his. 

"Tom  Brown  at  Oxford"  is  quite  deadly.  The  con- 
versations are  enough  to  send  you  into  a  state  of  coma. 

The  editress  of  St.  Joseph's  Lilies  tells  me  that  a 
young  but  famous  American  (or  Canadian)  poet  has 
been  converted  by  reading  "Gracechurch;"  Fm  glad, 

I  must  stop  —  as  you  see  I  have  nothing  to  say.  Con- 
sidering that  I  never  do  anything  here,  it  is  miraculous 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother       143 

that  I  can  make  you  a  letter  six  days  a  week.  This  goes, 
of  course,  by  to-morrow's  boat,  next  day  there  won't 
be  any. 

Monday y  April  12,  191 5 

Yesterday  was  a  heavenly  day,  and  I  beHeve  to-day 
will  be,  after  the  morning  mist  has  lifted. 

I'm  sorry  I  was  so  stupid  about  the  seeds.  I'm  afraid 
I've  made  them  very  late:  they  ought  to  have  been 
sown  a  month  ago. 

I  am  leaving  Dieppe  to  go  to  Versailles,  to  be  in  charge 
of  that  hospital  where  Ver  was.  I  have  not  had  the 
official  order  yet,  but  Monsignor  Keatinge  wrote  privately. 
I  am  glad  for  some  things,  sorry  for  others. 

This  place  is  very  expensive;  and  there  is  no  one  here 
to  know:  it  is  a  bit  lonely.  Whereas  I  know  a  few  really 
nice  people  in  Paris,  and  Versailles  is  only  about  half  an 
hour  from  Paris. 

Everyone  tells  me  the  place  is  charming,  the  parks, 
woods,  gardens,  etc.,  glorious,  and  the  distance  in  time 
from  England  much  the  same:  for  one  has  to  go  from 
Dieppe  to  Folkestone  four  or  five  hours,  whereas  the 
express  from  Paris  gets  to  Boulogne  in  three  hours,  and 
the  passage  thence  to  Folkestone  is  only  one  and  one  half 
hours. 

Anyway,  I've  got  to  go.  Go  on  addressing  here  till  I 
write  or  v/ire  another  address.  The  address,  I  believe, 
is  "General  Hospital,  Hotel  Trianon,  Versailles,  Paris." 
But  you  must  continue  to  put  B.  E.  F.  or  Expeditionary 
Force,  otherwise  it  will  be  2|d  postage. 
'  The  best  way  v/ill  be  for  you  to  go  on  addressing 
A.  P.  O.  S.  8,  until  I  either  telegraph  or  write:  if  I  tele- 
graph I  may  merely  use  the  word  "Leaving"  or  "De- 
parting": it  will  mean,  "Now  address  General  Hospital, 
Hotel  Trianon,  Versailles,  Paris,  Expeditionary  Force." 
Comte  du  Manoir  tells  me  that  Versailles  is  particularly 
airy  and  fresh  in  summer,  and  he  is  writing  to  tell  friends 


144       John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

of  his  to  come  and  see  me.  I  really  look  forward  to 
walks  in  the  great  park  there.  I  am  like  a  cat  and 
dislike  all  changes  of  place,  but  I  think  the  moment  I 
have  left  Dieppe  I  shall  be  delighted  with  the  change  to 
Versailles. 

I  must  make  a  dash  for  the  post. 

Monday,  April  12,  191 5 

I  WROTE  to  you  this  morning,  and  was  just  in  time  for 
the  post.  This  afternoon  I  spent  serving  behind  the 
counter  of  the  big  hut  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  (Young  Men's 
Christian  Association)  has  put  up  here  for  the  Enghsh 
soldiers. "  I  offered  to  help,  as  the  good  folks  who  are 
"running"  it  are  short-handed;  and  it  is  an  excellent 
thing  for  the  soldiers.  They  can  get  tea,  coffee,  cakes, 
tobacco,  cigarettes,  etc.,  there  all  day,  and  can  write 
letters,  and  read  newspapers.  It  really  makes  no  attempt 
to  interfere  with  the  men's  religions,  and  the  best  way  for 
me  to  prevent  its  doing  so,  if  it  wanted,  is  (I  think)  to 
help  myself,  and  so  let  them  feel  I  know  what  goes  on  in 
it.  And  it  shows  the  men,  too,  that  one  takes  an  interest 
in  their  comfort. 

I  hope  you  won't  be  too  much  disappointed  at  my 
move  from  this  place  to  Versailles.  Everyone  tells  me 
it  is  charming  there,  and,  as  I  have  told  you,  it  will  be 
much  more  economical.  Somehow  I  don't  yet  feel  sure 
that  I  shall  go,  though  Monsignor  Keatinge  has  told  me 
I  should.  He  did  not,  when  he  wrote,  know,  I  think, 
that  Father  Constant,  the  English-speaking  French 
Jesuit,  is  leaving  here,  too,  in  a  day  or  two.  .  .  .  The  first 
Sunday  there  were  nine  at  Mass:  then  eleven,  fourteen, 
seventeen,  and  so  on:  forty-three  the  Sunday  before 
Easter,  eighty  on  Easter  Sunday,  and  one  hundred  and 
thirteen  last  Sunday. 

At  Versailles  I  shall  have  no  troops,  only  a  large 
hospital:    I  mean  no  well  troops,  only  sick  or  wounded. 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother        145 

It's  no  use  talking  about  it;  we  can  only  wait  and  see  — 
like  Mr.  Asquith. 

I  have  no  doubt  I  shall  like  it  if  I  do  go. 

You  will  continue  to  get  your  almost  daily  letters 
from  me,  which  is  all  I  can  do  to  cheer  you  up  in  my 
absence. 

Tuesday,  7  p.m.,  April  13,  191 5 

Last  night  I  had  fastened  up  my  letter  to  you  and 
gone  down  to  dinner,  when  I  got  the  official  order  to  go 
to  Versailles  on  Thursday,  so  I  opened  the  letter  and 
told  you  so  in  a  post-script.  The  old  archpriest  was 
very  funny  about  it  all  this  morning.  "They  send  you 
here,"  he  said,  "when  there  are  only  sixty  Catholic 
soldiers  and  an  English-speaking  priest  on  the  spot; 
now  the  priest  is  not  available,  and  there  are  three 
hundred  Catholic  soldiers,  they  take  you  away,  and  say 
they  will  send  no  one  in  your  place.".  .  .  He  says  he  is 
desolated  to  lose  me,  and  it  is  rather  a  triumph,  for  I 
don't  think  he  cottoned  to  me  at  first. 

Of  course  I  am  not  to  be  pitied  going  to  Versailles,  one 
of  the  most  interesting  places  in  France,  and  within 
short  reach  of  a  dozen  others.  The  hotel  which  is  our 
hospital  is  said  to  be  one  of  the  finest  in  Europe. 

I  know  I  shall  hke  it:  only  I'm  rather  sorry  for  these 
three  hundred  Catholic  soldiers  left  without  an  English 
priest;  and  I  hope  they  will  behave  themselves.  These 
Base  towns  are  full  of  temptations,  it  is  not  like  the 
front.  .  .  . 

By  the  time  you  get  this  I  shall  be  at  Versailles,  as  I 
leave  here  at  midday  on  Thursday. 

I  cannot  write  to  you  that  night,  but  will  on  Friday. 
I  hope  you  will  get  that  letter  on  Sunday  or  Monday. 
I  can't  make  out  why  the  Good  Friday  letter  took  such 
a  time  reaching  you. 

I  have  just  been  shown  some  pictures  of  the  park  at 
Versailles,  just  outside  the  Hotel  Trianon  (our  hospital) 


146       John  Ayscouglfs  Letters  to  his  Mother 

and  it  must  be  lovely;  I  shall  love  walking  in  it.  You 
will  get  dozens  of  post-cards  for  your  book!  To-day  I 
had  a  long  letter  from  Madame  Clary.  .  .  I  make  out 
bits  at  a  time. 

It  is  a  horrible  day  to-day,  howling  wind  and  rain, 
and  I  have  been  writing  letters  all  afternoon  —  this  the 
fourteenth!     So  my  brain  feels  spongy  and  I  will  stop. 

Any  newspapers  and  magazines  will  be  very  useful 
now  for  the  hospital. 

Wednesday y  April  14,  191 5 

This  will  be  my  last  letter  from  Dieppe,  as  I  leave  for 
Versailles  to-morrow  morning  at  6.30.  I  find  that  if  I 
waited  till  the  midday  train  I  should  arrive  at  Versailles 
too  late  in  the  evening.  This  letter  can  only  be  a  very 
short  one,  as  I  am  in  the  throes  of  packing.  It  is  never 
a  charming  occupation,  and  my  possessions  have  swelled 
since  I  came  here,  so  much  persuasion  and  some  firm.ness 
is  necessary  to  induce  them  to  go  into  the  receptacles  I 
have  for  them. 

To-day  began  as  rainy  as  the  last  three  or  four  days, 
but  suddenly  became  fine  at  midday,  and  so  after  luncheon 
I  went  for  a  good-bye  walk  —  along  the  shore  to  Pour- 
ville,  and  back  the  same  way. 

It  was  rather  hard  going,  as  the  sand  deposited  by  the 
late  high  tides  has  all  been  washed  away  again.  But  it 
looked  very  pretty,  and  I  enjoyed  it.  It  will  be  a  pleasant 
change  to  have  the  smooth  roads  and  avenues  of  Ver- 
sailles, the  great  park  to  walk  in,  and  I  and  my  boots 
are  looking  forward  to  it. 

I  said  my  last  Mass  at  St.  Jacques  at  6.30  this  morning, 
and  the  old  archpriest  was  veiy  cordial  in  his  farewells. 

I  really  think  the  MS.  I  sent  to  the  Northern  News- 
paper Syndicate  must  be  somewhere  with  you:  the  one 
you  sent  me  was  the  MS.  of  ''French  and  Ejiglish"  for 
the  Month. 


John  Ayscough^s  Letters  to  his  Mother        147 

The  old  Commandant  d'Armes  here,  Comte  du  Manoir, 
whom  you  call  the  General  (which  he  would  like  to  be, 
I'm  sure)  has  already  written  to  an  old  friend  of  his, 
the  Comte  de  I'Argentine,  who  lives  at  Versailles  to  come 
and  be  civil  to  me.  He  told  me  rather  a  funny  story: 
another  friend  of  his,  a  Count  and  also  a  General,  is 
preternaturally  thin,  with  a  face  like  a  death's  head. 
He  had  to  attend  a  great  m»ilitary  funeral,  on  horseback, 
with  all  his  staff".  The  little  Paris  street  arabs  pointed 
to  him  and  called  out,  "Oh,  the  pigs!  they  have  made 
the  poor  corpse  ride!" 

There  is  quite  a  glorious  sunset  going  on  outside,  and  I 
must  go  outside  too,  to  post  this,  and  to  leave  them  my 
new  address,  so  that  anything  arriving  may  be  sent  on. 

In  fierce  haste. 

Paris,  April  15,  191 5 

It  is  12.30,  noon,  and  I  have  just  had  my  luncheon, 
for  which  I  was  quite  ready,  as  I  breakfasted  at  Dieppe 
before  six  and  have  had  a  four  and  a  half  hours'  railway 
journey  since. 

I  shall  go  on  to  Versailles  as  soon  as  I  have  written 
you  this  note.  There  are  trains  every  hour,  and  it  only 
takes  half  an  hour:  also  the  trains  for  Versailles  go  from 
this  station,  so  one  has  not  the  trouble  of  cabbing  it 
across  Paris. 

There  was  a  thick  fog  from  the  sea  at  Dieppe,  but  the 
sun  came  out  at  once  and  it  became  an  exquisite  morning. 
The  town  of  Dieppe  (the  sea  is  quite  out  of  sight  from 
the  train)  looked  very  picturesque  as  I  left  it,  its  many 
"basins"  reflecting  many  ships,  steep  hillsides  with 
houses  peering  out  of  the  trees,  the  mist  and  the  smoke 
of  new-lighted  fires.  The  images  of  the  ships,  upside 
down  in  the  water,  flashed  and  gleamed  in  the  sun. 

The  journey  from  Dieppe  to  Rouen,  and  from  Rouen 
(where  I  had  three-quarters  of  an  hour  to  wait)  to  Paris, 
was  quite  lovely  this  perfect  morning. 


148       John  Ayscouglo  s  Letters  to  his  Mother 

The  train  never  leaves  the  Seine,  but  runs  quite  close 
to  its  brimming  edge  all  the  way.  It  is  a  very  broad 
stream,  wider  than  the  Thames  at  Richmond,  and  the 
valley,  wide  and  flat,  is  an  image  of  richness;  then  it 
curves  between  high  cliff-banks,  of  very  picturesque 
shapes  —  there  are  frequent  forests  just  breaking  from 
purple  to  canary-green.  The  river  banks  are  laced  with 
willows  already  in  tender  leaf,  and  the  primroses  were 
out  everywhere.  I  can  tell  you  I  thoroughly  enjoy  the 
change;  my  little  bedroom  at  Dieppe  was  charming  in 
its  way,  but  two  months  was  enough  of  it. 

Be  sure  and  tell  me  when  you  get  this  letter,  which  I 
shall  have  to  entrust  to  the  civil  post-office. 

Now  I  must  go  and  get  shaved!  I  will  tell  you  some- 
thing —  I  wear  uniform  now  and  look  rather  iofy  in  it ! 

The  Christie  catalogue,  the  Catholic  World,  and  St. 
Joseph's  Lilies  all  arrived  in  time  for  me  to  bring  and 
read  in  the  train  on  the  way  here. 

But  hozu  you  waste  your  money  on  stamps  by  over- 
stamping! 

The  catalogue  and  the  books  had  each  fourpence  too 
much  on  them.  One  pound  goes  for  fourpence  by 
letter  post:  and  up  to  two  pounds  for  eightpence.  And 
they  7iever  surcharge,  even  if  you  had  put  too  little  on. 

Thursday y  April  15,  191 5 

I  HAVE  just  arrived  and  reported  myself,  and  it  is 
about  4.15;  at  4.45  the  post  goes,  so  I  am  just  in  time 
to  send  this  line  to  tell  you  I  had  a  charming  journey: 
but  I  wrote  to  you  about  that  from  Paris,  and  posted 
the  letter  in  the  civil  post.  I  wonder  which  you  will 
get  first,  this  or  it. 

Versailles  seems  q^iite  delightfiil,  and  the  hospital  is  a 
lovely  huge  building  in  a  lovely  garden  immediately 
adjoining  the  glorious  park. 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother       149 

I  am  relieving  Father  Morgan  here,  and  he  has  gone 
to  Treport,  near  Dieppe. 

I  will  write  a  proper  letter  later  on. 
The  Commanding  Officer  begs  to  say  that  the  address 
should  be: 

No.  4  General  Hospital, 
B.  E.  F. 
onlyy  without  Versailles,  or  Paris.     You  know  it  is  Ver- 
sailles, and  that's  enough. 

Friday^  April  16,  191 5 

After  writing  my  short  note  to  you  yesterday  after- 
noon, to  say  I  had  arrived,  I  sallied  forth  with  the  Colonel 
commanding  the  hospital,  who  rejoices  in  the  extraordi- 
nary name  of  Smith.  He  took  me  to  tea  at  their  mess, 
which  is  in  a  house  they  rent  —  the  hospital  is  too  full 
of  patients:  there  are  about  twenty  medical  officers. 
Father  Morgan  lived  in  a  flat,  so  as  he  did  not  belong  to 
the  Medical  Officers'  mess,  I  began  to  think  I  wouldn't. 

The  Colonel  was  very  civil;  he  lent  me  a  motor-car, 
and  a  motor  ambulance:  the  former  to  cart  me  round 
about  the  town  in  search  of  hotels,  lodgings,  etc.,  and 
the  other  to  fetch  my  baggage,  which  I  had  left  in  the 
station  cloak-room.  He  also  lent  me  a  young  French 
interpreter,  whom  I  took,  not  to  interpret,  but  because 
I  thought  he  would  know  places  where  one  might  apply 
for  quarters.  He  is  very  nice,  a  gentleman,  and  of 
excellent  manners.  However,  he  took  me  to  two  hotels 
(the  only  two  open)  and  I  thought  both  very  dear, 
rather  stuffy,  and  very  noisy.  So  we  motored  off  to  a 
convent,  and  the  Reverend  Mother  recommended  this 
place,  and  we  came  and  looked  at  it. 

It  is  quite  a  good  house,  in  the  middle  of  a  nursery- 
garden!  I  have  an  excellent  bedroom,  twice  the  size,  at 
least,  of  the  one  at  Dieppe,  extremely  clean  and  with 
very   good   furniture.     I    have   the   sole   use   of  a   quite 


150       John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

grand  dining-room:  the  food  is  much  better  than  at 
Dieppe,  and  the  total  expense  is  exactly  half  what  it  was 
there. 

Versailles  hotels  are  noisy,  but  this  house  is  beautifully 
quiet:  the  garden  runs  up  to  the  wall  of  the  great  park. 
I  have  such  lovely  flowers  in  my  room,  huge  sprays  of 
primula,  orchids,  and  plum  blossom!  The  man  is  a 
specialist  in  orchids.  His  name  is  Beranek,  and  he  is  a 
Czech  (Bohemian),  naturalized  in  France:  a  very  in- 
telligent, respectable  man.  The  wife  is  French,  Alsatian, 
a  comfortable,  elderly,  nice  body,  most  respectful  and 
respectable,  and  a  first-rate  cook.  There  are  two  girls, 
one  about  eleven  or  twelve,  and  about  twenty,  the  latter 
with  a  serene,  holy  face,  like  a  north  Italian  Madonna. 

The  nuns  know  these  people  well,  and  recommended 
them  cordially:  and  I  am  delighted  to  have  heard  of 
them.  The  convent-chapel  is  just  across  the  road  and 
I  said  Mass  there  this  morning  with  a  French  wounded 
soldier  to  serve.     Very  nice  nuns,  one  French  Canadian. 

I  have  only  just  finished  visiting  the  hospital  and 
also  had  a  little  peep  into  the  park:  it  is  delightful  — 
such  glorious  avenues  in  every  direction,  all  now  breaking 
into  tender  leaf. 

.  .  ,  Oh  my!  what  curiosity  shops!  If  I  were  a  mil- 
lionaire I  should  only  be  one  for  about  a  week,  as  I  should 
spend  all  my  cash  on  old  clocks,  bronzes,  tapestry, 
snuff-boxes,  etc. 

The  convent  used  to  be  a  little  snug  cottage  ornee  of 
Madame  de  Pompadour!     What  a  change  of  tenancy! 

Tell  me  when  you  get  this.  I  picked  these  celandines 
in  the  park. 

Friday  evening 

I  AM  writing  to  you  again  already,  though  I  only 
wrote  to  you  after  luncheon  to-day,  because  I  foresee  a 
busy  day  to-morrow,  and  may  not  be  able  to  write  before 
post-time. 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother        151 

I  went  round  the  corner  to  the  hospital  (it  is  onl}' 
eight  or  nine  minutes'  walk)  after  finishing  my  letter  to 
you,  and  was  there  a  good  while.  Among  other  useful 
things  I  achieved  was  this  —  I  persuaded  "Smith 
(he  wishes  to  call  me  "Drew,"  and  me  to  call  him 
"Smith") — well,  I  induced  Smith,  much  against  the 
grain,  to  give  me  the  permanent  use  of  a  room  in  the 
hospital  as  a  little  chapel. 

It  is  a  very  nice  room,  on  a  staircase  of  its  own,  entered 
by  a  door  from  the  garden,  and  so  quite  private,  quiet, 
and  exactly  what  I  would  have  chosen.  I  have  the  key, 
and  it  is  my  chapel  as  long  as  I'm  here:  to-morrow 
morning  I  am  going  to  fit  it  up:  it  will  need  no  cleaning, 
being  as  clean  as  a  new  pin,  not  used  at  all  by  any  one 
else  since  the  hotel  has  been  a  hospital.  Out  of  it  opens 
another  room  also  unused,  but  filled  with  furniture  put 
away:  Smith  allows  me  to  use  what  I  want  of  it,  so  I 
shall  have  as  many  chairs  as  I  v/ant  and  very  nice  ones, 
and  there  is  a  sort  of  cabinet  with  handsome  front  and 
long  marble  top  (just  the  right  height)  that  will  make 
an  excellent  and  really  very  handsome  altar. 

There    are    also    plenty    of    candlesticks,    vases,    etc. 
sn  t  It  a     scoop    : 

You  must  understand  these  two  rooms  are  shut  into  a 
sort  of  private  corridor  of  which  I  have  the  key.  I 
imagine  the  Sunday  morning  Mass  congregation  will 
prove  too  large  for  this  chapel,  and  that  will  have  to 
continue  in  the  tent  used  by  Father  Morgan;  but  for 
the  Sunday  evening  service,  and  for  Mass  and  Holy 
Communion  on  certain  days  of  the  week,  and  evening 
prayers  on  other  week  days,  and  for  hearing  confessions, 
it  v/ill  be  splendid,  and  v/ill  make  all  the  difference. 

Well,  after  Smith  and  I  had  inspected  this  room  and 
I  had  collared  the  key  (he  grumbling  all  the  while  and 
saying,  "I  don't  know  how  you  got  over  me.  I  don't 
know  why  I  said  you  should  have  it.  I  suppose  you 
must  now"),  we  went  downstairs,  and  there  was  Lady 


152       John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

Austin-Lee  from  the  Embassy,  and  she  was  most  cordial 
and  said  how  glad  she  was  to  know  me,  and  asked  me  to 
come  to  luncheon,  which  I  am  going  to  do. 

She  had  hardly  gone  away  when  a  tall  young  Lancer 
Officer  and  his  wife  came  in  (all  this  was  in  the  entrance- 
hall)  and  I  thought:  "That's  young  Brooke,  half-brother 
of  the  Wyndham  boy  who  was  killed  the  other  day" 
(you  know  Mrs.  Guy  Wyndham  was  Mrs.  Brooke,  a 
widow)  "and  that's  his  wife." 

I  used  to  meet  them  at  Amesbury  Abbey,  and  to  go 
to  tea  with  them  at  Fittleton  Manor  House;  he  was  in 
the  Cavalry  School,  at  Netheravon. 

Well,  the  lady  came  up  and  said,  "Are  you  not  Dr. 
Brooke?"  Of  course  I  said  no,  and  turned  away,  thinking 
I  had  made  a  mistake;  just  as  she  evidently  had.  Pres- 
ently I  saw  the  husband  staring  at  me,  and  he  said  to 
her,  "Isn't  that  Monsignor  Drew.?"  I  laughed  and  said, 
"Yes;  aren't  you  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Brooke.?"  They  were. 
And  she  had  really  known  me  all  along  and  muddled  up 
my  name.  So  we  had  a  talk  about  the  poor  Antrobuses, 
the  two  dead  ones,  and  Lady  A.  Wasn't  it  an  odd 
meeting  and  recognition? 

Then  I  went  for  a  long  stroll  in  the  park  and  gardens 
of  the  chateau:  it  is  all  quite  enchanting,  and  I  like  and 
admire  it  more  each  time  I  go.  .  .  .  First  I  walked  down 
beautiful  avenues,  turned  to  my  left  to  the  Grand  Canal, 
and  so  came  to  the  Basin  of  Apollo.  It  is  a  really  lovely 
group  of  bronze,  facing  up  toward  the  palace.  Then  I 
turned  still  left,  always  through  lovely  allies  and  avenues, 
and  came  to  part  of  "the  King's  Garden."  Of  course 
all  this,  park,  gardens,  basins,  canals,  fountains,  avenues, 
alleys,  terraces,  was  laid  out  by  Louis  XIV,  and,  whatever 
else  he  lacked,  he  had  a  magnificent  taste  as  a  creator. 
The  King's  Garden  is  not  one  of  the  formal  parts  of  the 
vast  design,  but  a  lovely  green  garden  of  banks,  sloping 
and  flat  groves,  and  thickets,  and  shrubberies,  with 
beautiful  tall  and  rare  trees  growing  up  out  of  the  shrubs 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother       153 

and  preventing  monotony  or  stiffness.  Of  course  there 
are  statues  everywhere,  marble,  bronze,  and  lead.  So  I 
came  to  the  bosquet  of  the  colonnade.  The  colonnade 
is  very  wide,  of  double  columns,  all  of  marble,  with  a 
cornice  and  entablature  connecting  them  into  a  huge 
oval:  in  the  middle  is  the  marble  group  of  the  Carrying 
off  of  Proserpine  by  Zeus.  Keeping  up  hill  (the  palace 
stands  on  a  plateau  high  above  the  park)  I  came  to 
avenues,  like  wheel-spokes,  all  having  open  glades  mid- 
way down,  with  a  basin  and  a  lovely  bronze  group, 
illustrating  the  Four  Seasons  .  .  .  two  on  the  left  of  the 
Grand  Avenue,  two  to  the  right.  So  I  came  up  onto  the 
Grand  Terrace,  an  enormous  open  space  in  front  of 
the  palace.  A  vast  marble  staircase  leads  down  toward 
the  Canal  and  the  Basin  of  Apollo:  halfway  down  it  is 
broken  by  another  huge  open  space  with  the  Fountain 
of  Latona  in  the  middle.  The  green  beasts  all  round  are 
turtles,  with  open  mouths  for  water  to  spout  through  — 
during  the  war  all  the  young  gardeners  are  gone  away 
to  fight,  and  the  fountains  do  not  play.  .  .  .  To  right  and 
left  of  the  Grand  Staircase,  above  the  Basin  of  Latona, 
is  another  basin,  with  very  well-done  groups  on  each 
side,  of  fighting  beasts.  .  .  .  Then  the  left-hand  basin: 
on  one  side  is  a  huge  hound  bringing  down  a  stag;  on 
the  other  two  fighting  polar  bears.  Each  animal  pours 
water  from  his  mouth  1 

Then  I  turned  toward  the  palace:  two  immense 
basins,  surrounded  by  really  glorious  bronze  groups, 
flank  the  approach.  Groups  of  children,  river-gods, 
river-nymphs,  etc. 

The  views  from  the  terrace  are  splendid  —  over  the 
park,  and  beyond  it,  over  wooded  hills.  I  passed  right 
through  the  palace  to  the  entrance  from  the  town  of 
Versailles.     But  I  did  not  attempt  to  do  the  palace.   .  .  . 

What  I  did  was  to  recross  the  palace,  and  go  down  by 
the  other  side  of  the  Grand  Avenue  to  the  Basin  of 
Apollo  and  so  home. 


154       John  AyscougJfs  Letters  to  his  Mother 

Besides  Versailles,  there  are  the  two  Trianons  to  visit, 
the  Grand  Trianon  and  the  Petit  Trianon,  Marly,  Meudon, 
St.  Germain,  etc. 

So  I  shall  have  lots  to  see  and  to  tell  you  about.  Mean- 
while I  have  ungratefully  forgotten  to  thank  you  for  the 
pin  book,  which  is  very  useful  and  for  which  I  do  thank 
ycHU,  though  unpunctually. 

I  got  Alice's  parcel  of  books  just  as  I  was  leaving 
Dieppe. 

Please  don't  put  "Versailles"  in  the  address,  only 
No.  4  General  Hospital:  the  censor  here  told  me  about  it! 

I  must  go  to  bed. 

Saturday  Night 

It  is  really  bed-time,  and  I  am  sleepy;  but  I  must 
write  you  a  little  letter. 

All  this  morning  I  was  working  at  my  chapel  in  the 
hospital:  and  it  is  really  charming.  One  of  these  days 
I  will  try  and  get  someone  to  photograph  it  for  you: 
but  officers  are  no  longer  allowed  to  have  cameras. 

All  afternoon  I  was  in  the  wards,  and  found  it  very 
interesting.  There  were  a  few  German  patients,  wounded 
like  our  own  men,  and  I  gave  them  rosaries,  medals,  etc. 
They  were  delighted.  And  they  said  how  comfortable 
they  were,  and  how  kind  everyone  was  to  them.  Our 
men  are  really  splendid  to  them,  so  cordial,  brotherly 
and  friendly. 

The  people  I  lodge  with  give  me  exquisite  flowers  for 
my  chapel,  heaps  of  primulas,  and  lovely  ferns,  and  rare 
orchids.  They  seem  quite  excellent  people,  and  I  am 
most  lucky  to  have  found  such  a  place.  Eveiything  was 
so  horribly  dear  in  the  Dieppe  hotel. 

But  I  must  go  to  bed! 

Sunday  Evening,  A^ril  i8,  191 5 

I  RECEIVED  your  letter  of  Thursday  this  morning, 
and  was  delighted  to  feel  again  in  touch  with  you.     That 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother        155 

letter  was  addressed  here:  no  doubt  the  letter  written  on 
Wednesday,  addressed  to  A.  P.  O.  S.  8,  will  arrive  to- 
morrow. 

I  am  so  sorry  that  Alice  has  left  you  again,  and  to 
think  she  was  anxious,  but  I  think  without  occasion  — 
on  the  contrary  I  think  she  should  bless  the  lumbago 
that  has  dragged  Ver  out  of  those  awful  trenches.  Of 
course  it  is  a  tiresome,  tedious  malady,  but  certainly 
not  dangerous,  and  the  trenches  are  dangerous.  There 
was  no  reason  to  be  anxious  because  they  sent  him  home, 
for  no  patients  are  kept  long  out  here:  all  diseases  or 
wounds  that  require  time  and  long  treatment  are  sent 
home,  as  soon  as  the  patient  can  travel.  It  sounds 
brutal,  but  if  I  were  Alice  I  should  be  in  no  great  hurry 
for  him  to  be  well  enough  to  go  back  to  the  fighting  line. 
All  the  same  I  know  how  you  and  her  mother  will  miss 
her  cheerful  presence. 

To-morrow  I  am  going  in  to  Paris  to  lunch  with  Lady 
Austin-Lee,  whose  husband  is  Secretary  of  our  Embassy 
there. 

I  had  Mass  at  nine  this  morning  in  my  new  chapel, 
and  the  men  appreciated  it  immensely.  A  Sergeant 
Doyle,  with  a  face  beside  which  mine  looks  pale,  played 
the  harmonium. 

Then  I  came  home  and  had  my  tea:  then  I  went  for 
a  walk  till  luncheon.  It  was  quite  delicious,  a  most 
perfect  spring  morning  with  all  the  buds  on  the  trees 
opening  visibly  in  the  sunlight,  and  an  exquisite  blue 
sky  behind  the  brown  and  primrose  lace  of  the  branches. 

Entering  the  park  by  the  gate  next  our  hospital,  I 
walked  straight  down  a  great  triple  avenue  to  the  gates 
of  the  two  Trianons  —  I  turned  right,  and  got  into  the 
gardens  of  the  Little  Trianon.  The  palace  is  quite  small, 
what  in  Italy  would  be  called  a  casino,  but  the  grounds 
are  very  large,  and  very  countrified  and  delightful. 
The  trees  .so  old  that  most  of  them  must  be  the  very 
ones   under  which   poor  Marie  Antoinette  sauntered   in 


156       John  Ayscougb's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

her  beaux  jours.  There  are  no  avenues  or  allees:  the 
trees  are  in  groves,  or  dotted  here  and  there  on  lovely 
natural-looking  lawns;  there  are  innumerable  narrow 
walks,  winding  in  and  out,  up  and  down  little  hillocks, 
often  among  thickets  of  very  old  yews.  Here  and  there 
a  little  pond,  not  a  stone  basin,  with  swans:  no  bronze 
groups,  or  fountains,  no  statues.  The  whole  thing  is 
eloquent  of  the  poor  Queen's  desire  to  escape  from  royalty 
and  palace-life,  and  have  a  little  corner  of  her  own,  away 
from  the  intolerable  etiquette  of  Versailles,  where  she 
could  feel  she  was  in  a  country-house  garden,  instead  of 
in  the  magnificent  gardens  of  a  palace. 

After  spending  quite  an  hour  in  the  lawns  and  thickets 
of  the  Petit  Trianon,  I  turned  to  find  the  very  easy  way 
to  the  Grand  Trianon,  which  is  quite  close  to  it.  Passing 
behind  the  Queen's  dairies,  and  her  kitchen  garden,  I 
saw  rows  of  very  old  standard  magnolia-trees  lifting 
their  divine  heads  over  the  high  wall.  You  never  saw 
such  lovely  magnolias,  all  covered  with  thousands  of 
enormous  blossoms  —  not  the  greenish-yellow  sort,  but 
pure  white  with  crocus-purple  outer  petals,  and  this 
white  against  the  blue  sky  was  indescribably  beautiful. 

Then  I  came  to  a  large  stone  basin,  full  of  deep  water; 
at  first  I  thought  people  had  been  throwing  oranges  into 
it,  but  I  found,  when  I  went  close  to  the  edge,  that  they 
were  very  stately,  aldermanic  gold-fish:  huge,  about 
two  pounds  weight  each,  and  nearly  old  enough  to  be 
the  very  ones  the  Queen  put  there. 

Then  I  came  to  a  slope  leading  down  to  an  open, 
formal  glade,  with  another  stone  basin  and  a  bronze 
group  in  the  middle  of  it:  all  around  marble  busts  of 
Roman  emperors  and  famous  ancients  on  marble  plinths. 

In  every  direction  from  the  palace  (Grand  Trianon) 
avenues  ray  out,  like  wheel-spokes:  but  they  all  end  in  a 
real  informal  wood,  or  forest,  part  of  the  Versailles  park. 

The  Grand  Trianon  is  large  and  really  most  beautiful, 
but  only  one  storey:    no  upstairs  at  all.     The  peristyle 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother       157 

is  very  fine  and  of  a  beautiful,  simple,  but  grandiose 
style  —  still  a  palace.  And  it  is  only  a  very  short  mile 
from  the  huge  palace  of  Versailles  —  no  wonder  the 
starving  people  growled  to  see  hundreds  and  hundreds  of 
thousands  spent  on  building  this  utterly  unnecessary 
house  for  a  lady  who  had  so  vast  a  house  barely  out  of 
sight,  perhaps  twelve  hundred  yards  away.  Of  course 
it  has  given  delight  to  millions  of  people  since,  and  no 
doubt  the  Republic  recognises  that  and  so  keeps  it  all 

up-     . 

I  did  not  visit  the  insides  of  either  palace,  as  I  have 
not  visited  those  of  Versailles  —  I  only  wanted  to  get  to 
know  the  ground,  and  realise  the  places.  Later  on  I 
will  go  inside. 

I  got  home  just  in  time  for  luncheon  and  then  spent 
the  afternoon  till  4.30  visiting  the  wards. 

At  4.30  I  went  to  tea  with  Rowan,  the  Church  of 
England  chaplain,  a  nice  fellow,  youngish,  whom  I  used 
to  know  at  Bulford  long  ago.  He  is  just  married  —  in 
February  —  and  the  young  lady  came  out  and  they 
were  married  here.  However,  wives  are  forbidden,  and 
she  is  being  sent  home  to-morrow.  She  is  quite  a  girl, 
pretty,  at  present  afflicted  with  a  vehement  cold  in  her 
head. 

At  5.30  I  had  my  evening  service;  then  came  home, 
dined,  and  then  sat  down  to  give  you  this  account  of  my 
day. 

And  now  to  bed. 

Monday  y  April  19,  191 5 

I  HAVE  just  had  my  dinner  and  now  I  am  sitting  down 
to  write  and  tell  you  my  doings. 

I  said  Mass  at  the  convent  at  eight  —  they  won't 
have  a  6.30  a.m.  Mass!  Then  came  across  here  to  break- 
fast. Then  went  down  to  the  hospital  where  I  found 
your  letters  of  Friday  morning  and  Friday  afternoon. 


158       John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

I  can't  see  why  Alice  and  Christie  should  be  anything 
but  delighted  to  have  Ver  home,  especially  if  he  is  to 
have  a  recruiting  billet  in  the  Isle  of  Wight,  instead  of 
going  back  to  those  fearsome  trenches.  Lumbago  is  a 
thorough  nuisance,  but  it  is  infinitely  preferable  to  a 
Black  Maria  in  the  pit  of  one's  stomach.  What  I  regret 
is  your  losing  Alice,  and  I  know  what  a  difference  it  must 
make. 

Well,  after  reading  my  letters  I  did  various  jobs,  and 
at  a  quarter  to  eleven  made  a  dash  into  my  beloved  park, 
where  I  find  out  new  places  and  new  beauties  every 
time.  I  could  only  stay  a  short  time,  then  cut  up  the 
Grand  Approach  to  the  palace,  crossed  it,  and  went 
down  to  the  Place  d'Armes  on  the  other  side,  whence 
the  tram  to  Paris  starts. 

There  are  three  ways  of  going  to  Paris;  two  ways  by 
train,  and  one  by  tram.  The  tram  takes  a  little  longer 
—  about  one  and  a  quarter  hours,  but  it  is  a  little  more 
interesting,  passing  through  Sevres,  St.  Cloud,  etc. 
And  it  stops  close  by  the  Avenue  du  Trocadero,  where 
Sir  Henry  and  Lady  Austin-Lee  live. 

The  first  noticeable  thing  one  passed  on  reaching  Paris 
was  the  Eiffel  Tower,  which  I  think  monstrous,  though 
the  Parisians  are  as  proud  as  Punch  of  it.  .  .  .  Opposite, 
on  the  other  side  of  the  Seine,  is  the  Trocadero,  also 
monstrous,  though  less  so. 

The  Austin-Lees  live  in  a  fine  flat  high  up  {4^'^^  etage) 
with  a  magnificent  view  from  the  windows.  Sir  Henry 
was  just  coming  in  from  the  Embassy,  where,  as  I  told 
you,  he  is  First  Secretary.  He  is  a  handsome,  oldish 
man,  rather  deaf,  with  a  regular  diplomatist's  face  and 
manner.  He  has  been  in  Paris  over  thirty  years,  and 
was  here  with  Lord  Lyons,  whom  I  knew  long  ago  when 
I  used  to  stay  with  the  old  Duchess  of  Norfolk,  his  sister. 
He  met  me  at  the  door  and  we  came  up  in  the  lift  to- 
gether. The  other  guest  was  a  Mr.  Urquhart,  nice  and 
simple,  an  Oxford  Don,  a  Fellow  of  Balliol,  but  not  at 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother       159 

all  Donnish  in  his  ways.  Balliol  is  young  Herbert  Ward's 
college,  and  Mr.  Urquhart  knows  him  well.  .  .  . 

It  amuses  me  to  hear  you  speak  as  if  Versailles  was 
Paris;  it  is  a  regular  country  town,  though  a  fair  sized 
one  (three  times  the  size  of  Salisbury,  and  two  hundred 
times  livelier),  with  its  own  Bishop,  and  even  in  a  different 
"Department"  from  Paris. 

Well,  after  luncheon  I  walked  from  the  Avenue  du 
Trocadero,  to  the  St.  Lazare  station,  about  twenty-five 
minutes'  walk:  crossing  the  Champs  Elysees  and  in 
front  of  the  Arc  de  Triomphe:  passing  close  by  the 
hotel  where  you,  I,  Aunt  Lizzie,  and  our  pilgrims  stayed 
on  our  way  from  Rome  in  1895. 

At  4.20  I  got  a  train  out  here,  and  Versailles  seemed 
quite  home-Hke  and  countrified  after  huge  Paris. 

And  that's  all  I  have  to  tell  you.  .  .  . 

Now  I'm  going  to  my  by-bye.     So  good  night. 

Tuesday  Mornings  8.30  a.m. 

Postscript  to  last  night's  letter. 

I  HAVE  just  received /owr  envelopes  from  you,  one  with 
your  letter  of  this  day  week,  Tuesday  afternoon,  the 
13th,  one  with  your  letter  of  the  following  morning  and 
two  merely  enclosing  forwarded  letters. 

All  these  left  Dieppe  on  Saturday,  so  they  have  taken 
three  days  to  come!  That  is  sheer  rot,  as  the  railway- 
journey  only  takes  seven  hours. 

The  censor  here  is  a  young  doctor,  not  really  an  officer 
in  peace-time,  but  taken  on  for  the  war:  not  of  purely 
imperial  (or  even  royal)  descent,  I  fancy,  rather  full  of 
importance.  All  the  same  he  won't  open  my  letters, 
you  may  always  be  sure  of  that:  nor  yours  to  me  —  710 
letters  from  England  are  opened,  even  to  the  soldiers. 

I  said  Mass  in  my  own  chapel  this  morning  and  loved 
it;  it  is  so  pretty  and  so  quiet  and  devotional.  Eight 
soldiers  came,  two  Germans. 


l6o       John  Ayscough^s  Letters  to  his  Mother 

"We  are  brothers  here  in  hospital,  all  of  us,"  I  said  to 
one  of  them;  "but  everywhere  you  are  my  son,  for  I  am 
a  priest." 

"Oh,  yes!"  he  said,  "you  are  my  father:  but  if  Peace 
would  be  quick  and  come  and  end  this  ugly  war  we  could 
all  be  brothers  again," 

This  is  only  a  Postscript. 

Tuesday  Evening,  7  p.m. 

I  HAVE  not  so  much  to  write  about  this  evening,  but 
here  I  am  back  at  my  writing-table  which  I  have  moved 
into  the  window  to  write  there  till  it  is  dark  enough  to 
light  my  lamp. 

All  the  foreground  is  nursery  garden:  to  the  left  are 
rows  of  serves,  greenhouses  and  hot-houses,  more  to  the 
left  is  a  suburb,  and  beyond  it  an  arm  of  the  park. 

I  had  two  walks  in  the  park  to-day,  one  at  the  end  of 
the  morning,  just  before  luncheon,  not  a  long  one.  I 
approached  it  from  the  palace,  and  walked  down  through 
various  allees  to  the  Basin  of  Apollo,  and  back  by  the 
allees  on  the  other  side:  revisiting  the  fountains  of  the 
Four  Seasons;  from  each  of  them  eight  avenues  ray  out, 
like  wheel-spokes. 

All  afternoon  I  was  in  the  hospital,  and  about  4.30 
Lady  Austin-Lee,  who  had  been  also  visiting  it,  met  me 
with  an  English  friend,  married  to  a  French  Viscount  — 
Madame  de  la  Vauguyon,  I  think,  but  I  did  not  quite 
catch  the  name.  If  it  is  de  la  Vauguyon  her  husband  is 
descended  from  a  very  charming,  but  terribly  poor 
courtier  of  Louis  XIV,  who  shot  himself  one  Sunday 
morning  while  everyone  was  at  Mass,  in  his  bed,  here 
at  Versailles,  because  he  had  not  bread  to  eat.  His 
poverty  and  misery  had  turned  his  head,  and  he  had 
done  some  very  mad  things  before. 

Lady  Austin-Lee  was  very  gracious.  A  General 
de  Chalain,  had  been,  and  still  was,  waiting  in  the  hall 
to  see  me;   sent  by  Comte  du  Manoir. 


'John  AyscougJfs  Letters  to  his  Mother        i6i 

I  showed  the  ladies  my  chapel,  and  they  were  en- 
chanted, and  thought  me  a  magician  to  have  raised  it  in 
a  day  out  of  the  means  I  had.  The  furniture  in  it  is 
very  good  and  beautiful. 

.  .  .  Then  I  came  home  to  tea,  and  afterwards  walked 
off  to  the  two  Trianons.  Most  of  the  time  I  spent  in 
the  Little  Trianon,  wandering  in  the  lovely  glades  and 
groves;  and  I  saw  the  little  farm,  by  a  small  lake,  so 
often  read  of  all  my  life,  where  poor  Marie  Antoinette 
used  to  milk  her  cows. 

It  was  an  exquisite  evening,  and  the  sunlight  of  the 
falling  day  among  those  budding  trees  was  most  lovely, 
tender,  and  gentle.  Poor  Queen!  she  hadn't  too  much 
sense,  but  the  price  she  paid  for  her  silliness  was  so 
bitter;  and  her  ghost  haunting  those  glades  and  gardens 
is  all  gentle  and  pathetic.  I  picked  you  these  celandines 
and  dog-violets  and  leaves  there. 

Again  I  went  round  into  the  larger,  more  formal, 
avenues  of  the  Grand  Trianon,  and  surprised  a  young 
officer  and  his  sweetheart,  but  hurried  away,  and  I  don't 
think  they  knew  I  had  seen  their  billing  and  cooing  — 
the  doves  up  in  the  trees  were  noisier  about  it. 

I  saw  several  rare  birds  —  wild  birds.  A  wonderful 
little  creature  (a  pair  of  them,  rather)  v\^ith  a  longish  fire- 
coloured  tail,  and  blue-black  body,  and  scarlet  and  blue 
head:  and  some  woodpeckers  I  did  not  know  before, 
kingfisher  shaped,  but  twice  the  size,  and  of  electric 
colouring  like  a  kingfisher,  only  darker  in  tint.  And  so 
I  strolled  home.  There  were  very  few  people  in  the  parks, 
mostly  of  the  quite  upper  class,  such  as  one  never  saw  at 
Dieppe:  one  very  charming-lookmg  young  French  officer 
strolhng  with  his  mother,  a  widow,  and  both  of  them 
looking  very  happy  and  confidential. 

(Dinner!) 

(After  dinner.) 

I  could  not  speak  to  them,  though  I  should  have  liked 
to;  but  I  made  a  little  prayer  that  all  would  go  well  with 


1 62       John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

them,  and  that  nothing  would  ever  deprive  the  mother 
of  her  son. 

There  are  20,000  French  troops  here;  another  contrast 
to  Dieppe,  where  there  were  only  the  wounded,  and  the 
Belgian  troops  in  the  barracks. 

I  don't  think  I  have  any  more  to  tell  3^ou:  except  that 
the  nuns  at  the  convent  where  I  go  and  say  Mass  on  some 
of  the  days  in  each  week  when  I  don't  say  Mass  in  my 
chapel,  have  sixty  wounded:  and  one  of  them,  a  young 
aeroplanist  ("aviateur"  as  they  call  it).  He  is  quite 
charming:  a  gentleman,  with  a  most  wonderfully  pure 
and  holy  face.  I  have  long  talks  with  him,  as  he  goes 
about  on  his  crutches.  Up  in  the  air  he  was  attacked 
by  a  German  aeroplane,  and  its  bombs  smashed  him  and 
his  machine,  he  was  hit  in  the  head,  in  the  shoulder,  in 
the  thigh,  in  the  hip,  and  in  the  chest.  The  machine 
fell  to  ground  only  two  hundred  yards  from  the  German 
trenches,  and  he  was  shot  again  and  again.  And  now 
he  is  getting  quite  well. 

It  all  sounds  so  ghastly,  and  he  is  so  cheerful  and  so 
simple,  and  "unbraggy"  about  it. 

Now  I'm  going  to  dry  up. 

Friday  Night,  April  23,  191 5 

I  HAD  another  letter  from  you  to-day,  the  one  in 
which  you  tell  me  of  Mrs.  Gater's  visit,  and  of  Mickie 
having  bitten  Mr.  Major's  leg.  .  .  .  No,  there  is  not  the 
least  objection  to  your  saying  where  I  am.  .  .  . 

The  Salle  des  Glaces  at  the  Grand  Trianon  is  interesting, 
because  the  "glaces,"  the  huge  panels  of  looking-glass, 
date  from  Louis  XIV's  time.  They  consist  of  smallish 
squares  pieced  together,  big  mirrors  all  in  one  piece  not 
being  attainable  then.  The  immense  round  table  is  all 
one  bit  of  wood,  Malabar  oak,  the  section  of  a  huge  tree- 
trunk;  it  served  for  Council  Table  to  Louis  Philippe's 
ministers.     The  next  card  would  be  more  appropriately 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother        163 

inscribed  Louis  Philippe's  bedroom  if  he  had  ever  used 
it;  but  it  was  Louis  XIV's,  the  "Grand  Dauphin's" 
(Louis  XIV's  son)  Madame  Mere's,  the  mother  of  Na- 
poleon I,  and  the  bed  was  her  bed. 

No.  3  is  of  the  Salon  des  Malachites  —  called  from  the 
huge  malachite  vase  in  the  middle,  given  by  the  Emperor 
of  Russia  to  Napoleon  I,  after  the  Peace  of  Tilsit. 

No.  4  is  Napoleon's  study,  where  he  worked  and  wrote. 

No.  5  his  bedroom:  really  that  of  Marie  Louise  —  the 
bed  is  an  exquisite  bit  of  furniture,  and  there  is  a  lovely, 
enormous  Sevres  vase  on  the  cabinet  at  the  foot  of  the 
bed. 

No.  6  is  a  little  private  salon  of  Napoleon  I's,  and  the 
table  in  the  middle  is  all  of  glorious  mosaic,  given  to  him 
by  Pius  VII  —  it  cost  a  million  francs,  and  was  made  in 
the  Vatican  atelier. 

No.  7  is  a  round  hall  with  a  statue-group  representing 
France  and  Italy  kissing  each  other:  France's  figure  is 
that  of  the  Empress  Eugenie. 

No.  8  is  one  of  the  splendid  suite  of  rooms  prepared 
for  Queen  Victoria  by  Louis  Philippe. 

In  June,  1789,  after  the  States  General  had  been  at 
last  assembled,  the  Third  Estate,  what  we  should  call 
the  Commons,  who  had  not  the  right  to  sit  w4th  the 
First  Estate,  the  clergy,  and  the  Second  Estate,  the 
nobles,  and  had  their  own  hall  of  meeting,  had  invited 
those  other  Estates  to  meet  them,  and  declare  themselves 
a  National  Assembly.  Louis  XVI  had  the  folly  to  shut 
the  doors  of  their  hall  in  their  faces  —  on  June  20,  1789. 
Whereupon  they  went  off  to  the  huge  hall  called  Jeu  de 
Paume  —  the  Tennis  Court,  half  a  mile  from  the  palace. 
There  they  all  took  an  oath  never  to  separate  till  they 
had  given  a  Constitution  to  France.  That  was  one  of 
the  most  memorable  days  the  world  has  ever  seen. 

I  went  to  the  place  this  afternoon,  and  persuaded  the 
caretaker  to  let  me  in.  It  is  quite  unchanged,  except 
for   the   huge   picture   filling   one   end,    representing   the 


164       John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

meeting,  for  the  statue  of  Bailly  the  President,  and  the 
other  statues  (busts,  rather)  of  the  other  notables  who 
took  part  in  the  work  of  that  day.  It  interested  me 
more  than  anything  I  have  seen  here  yet:  though  of 
course  it  has  no  beauty. 

.  .  .  To-morrow  I  intend  seeing  the  inside  of  the 
palace  of  Versailles  itself.  .   .  . 

The  town  itself  is  really  charming:  a  real  royal  borough, 
fine,  cheerful,  clean,  and  of  wonderful  extent. 

.  .  .  Does  all  this  description  bore  you  to  death.? 
It  has  made  me  sleepy!     And  to  bed  I  go. 

Saturday,  April  24,  191 5 

This  morning  I  had  a  charming  letter  from  Major 
Newland,  and  he  said  they  both  thought  you  looking 
much  better  than  the  last  time  they  saw  you.  Mind 
you  keep  so! 

This  afternoon  I  went  through  the  interior  of  the 
palace  —  Versailles  itself.  ...  A  great  number  of  huge 
rooms  are  picture  galleries  —  immense  canvasses,  all  of 
French  wars,  and  not  quite  first  rate  for  the  most  part. 
The  tapestries,  furniture,  ceilings,  chimney-pieces  are  all 
quite  glorious:  so  are  the  views  over  the  gardens  and 
parks  from  the  windows.  .  .  .  But  the  great  interest  to 
me  comes  from  having  read  such  a  lot  of  French  history 
and  memoirs  dealing  with  Versailles,  so  that  seeing  the 
famous  rooms  explains  what  one  has  read,  and  what  one 
has  read  explains  the  rooms. 

For  the  first  time  since  I  arrived  I  have  not  been 
to-day  for  a  walk  in  the  park  or  gardens. 

I  don't  feel  letterish  to-night:  partly  because  I  have 
written  ten  or  twelve  other  letters.     So  good  night. 

April  25,  191 5 

...  I  don't  belong  to  No.  4  British  Expeditionary 
Force,  but  to  No.  4  General  Hospital!     There!  !  ! 


John  Ayscough' s  Letters  to  his  Mother        165 

I  lunched  with  the  Bishop  of  Versailles  to-day,  and 
he  was  quite  charming,  and  I  thoroughly  enjoyed  it. 
The  other  priests  present  were  the  Vicar  General,  an 
old  Chancellor,  and  I  think  the  Secretary.  All  really 
cordial  and  friendly  —  the  Versailles  priests.  This  dio- 
cese is  immense  and  contains  many  hundreds  of  thousands 
of  operatives  to  whom  the  Bishop  is  a  real  apostle.  He 
has  no  grand  airs,  or  stiffness,  but  is  most  genial  and  wide- 
minded,  and  of  a  very  warm,  open  heart.  To  me  he  was 
dehghtful,  most  brotherly  and  kind.  I  was  not  shy,  but 
talked  like  a  house  afire,  and  my  wise  sayings  were  much 
approved!     Fancy  me  jawing  away  in  French! 

After  leaving  the  Bishop's  I  came  home  and  then 
walked  to  the  Trianons:  visiting  the  little  octagonal 
music-pavilion  on  the  small  lake,  and  the  grotto  where, 
as  I  told  you,  Marie  Antoinette  heard  that  the  mob  had 
come  out  from  Paris  and  invaded  Versailles;  also  I 
went  again  to  the  "Hameau,"  the  little  sham  village  where 
her  dairy  was  and  is,  on  the  larger  lake.  These  sham 
cottages  are  not  in  very  good  taste  —  really  built  of 
stone  to  imitate  brick!  Also  I  strolled  all  about  in  the 
thickets  and  glades,  full  of  quiet  strollers,  to-day  being 
Sunday.  Then  round  by  the  Grand  Trianon  and  so 
home,  or  rather  to  the  hospital  for  evening  church. 

You  will  presently  receive  a  parcel,  not  of  goodies! 
I  saw  to-day  a  number  of  tiny  chestnut  trees,  first  shoot- 
ing from  the  chestnuts,  and  I  am  going  to  steal  some  and 
send  them  home.  Bert  must  plant  and  water  them, 
and  they  must  not  die.  I  want  to  keep  them  as  a  little 
souvenir  of  Marie  Antoinette's  Trianon. 

If  I  can  find  any  seedlings  of  less  common  trees  than 
horse  chestnuts,  well  and  good,  but  it  will  not  be  so  easy. 

Indeed  I  feel  ashamed  of  seeing  so  much  without 
you  that  you  would  love  to  see.  But  at  least  it  gives  me 
something  to  tell  you  about. 

.  .  .  Now  I  must  stop. 


1 66       John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

Wednesday^  April  28,  191 5 

I  GOT  your  letter  of  Sunday  morning,  this  morning, 
and  your  letter  of  Saturday,  with  pansies  in  it,  yesterday. 
I  send  Christie  a  fat  packet  to-day,  so  you  need  not  give 
up  any  of  yours. 

Yesterday  I  was  godfather  to  young  C.  at  his  con- 
firmation. The  Bishop  was  so  nice  to  him,  and  seemed 
wonderfully  pleased  at  my  being  godfather:  in  his  little 
address  before  confirming  he  alluded  to  it  and  to  my 
high  dignity,  etc. 

Then  C.  and  I  went  for  a  drive,  his  first  for  four  months, 
in  the  park  and  to  Trianon.  He  had  never  been  inside, 
and  a  special  permission  is  necessary  during  the  war, 
so  I  got  him  in  and  went  all  over  it  again.  The  furniture, 
Sevres  china,  clocks,  carved  wood,  etc.,  all  seemed  more 
fascinating  than  ever.  Then  we  went  and  looked  at  the 
museum  of  carriages  —  really  interesting  and  some  of 
them  very  magnificent. 

This  morning  I  said  Mass  at  the  hospital  chapel  — 
no  more  news  of  our  moving  to  Calais  —  still  it  is  far 
from  improbable. 

Wednesday  Evening,  April  28,  191 5 

I  SHALL  not  be  able  to  write  you  at  all  an  interesting 
letter  to-day,  for  to-morrow's  mail,  because  I  have  not 
done  any  lionising,  or  even  been  for  a  walk  in  the  park. 

It  has  been  quite  hot,  of  course  not  too  hot:  whereas 
up  to  Sunday  was  uncommonly  cold,  though  bright. 

...  I  am  now  reading  Sir  Archibald  Alison's  History 
of  Europe,  and  am  at  present  in  the  period  immediately 
preceding  the  French  Revolution:  to  read  it  here  makes 
it  doubly  interesting.  He  is  verbose  and  prosy,  and 
treats  you  to  too  much  disquisition  of  his  own,  of  no 
profound  force  or  value:  still  his  facts  are  interesting. 
He  makes  a  miracle  of  Marie  Antoinette,  a  genius  and 
a   model  of  all  excellencies.     I   cannot  think  of  her  as 


John  Ayscough^s  Letters  to  his  Mother       167 

a  heroine  before  her  fall:  then  she  was  indeed  one.  He 
evidently  thinks  Louis  XVI's  concessions,  from  the 
beginning  of  his  reign,  to  the  party  of  Liberty,  were  all 
blunders,  but  I  don't  see  that  the  miserable  return  they 
met  with  alters  their  justice,  or  proves  them  anything 
but  inevitable.  If  they  had  not  been  made,  Louis  XVI 
would  have  been  beheaded  just  the  same,  only  he  would 
have  deserved  it. 

It  is  astonishing  to  me  to  find  that  there  is  really  an 
immensely  widespread  ogling  at  monarchy  here,  and  that 
all  over  France  there  are  associations  to  bring  it  back. 
But  I  am  convinced  that  it  is  all  a  dream:  that  the  time 
for  making  new  kings  in  Europe  is  gone  by,  and  that  there 
is  far  more  probability  of  existing  monarchies  collapsing. 
Who  could  be  the  monarch  here.^  He  would  have  to  be  a 
man  of  great  power  and  force,  a  genius;  and  the  Duke 
of  Orleans  is  of  no  consequence,  and  the  Napoleonic 
claimant  of  much  less:  both  have  passed  their  lives  out 
of  France  and  are  out  of  touch  with  it.  The  great 
mistake  of  the  Repubhc  seems  to  have  been  its  perse- 
cution of  Religion:  and  of  course  the  Monarchists 
make  religion  their  "ticket":  but  I  wonder  how  much 
the  millions  care? 

This  letter  is  rather   like  one  of 's,   and  you  will 

yawn  your  head  off  over  it. 

But  as  I  have  seen  nothing  to-day  to  tell  you  about, 
I  am  teUing  you  the  things  I  think  about. 

Now  I'm  off  to  bed. 

Friday,  April  30,  191 5 

I  SENT  you  just  now  a  pot  of  "rillettes"  —  a  sort  of 
pate;  but  I  don't  think  you  will  care  for  it  as  much  as 
the  French  do. 

I  cannot  write  a  proper  letter  to-day  because  a  thou- 
sand and  seven  wounded  have  just  turned  up  and  I  am 
very  busy. 


1 68       John  Jyscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

That  does  not  look  like  moving  our  hospital  at  once. 
I  fancy,  if  we  move  at  all,  it  cannot  be  for  another  month 
or  so. 

My  friend  C.  left  the  convent  hospital  the  day  before 
yesterday.  Moved  to  another  hospital  at  Montreuil 
near  here:  yesterday  at  lunch  time  I  received  an  eager 
request  to  go  and  see  him  there:  he  was  feeling  lonely 
and  desolate:  and  of  course  in  very  rough,  barracky 
quarters. 

Friday  Night,  April  30,  191 5 

I  AM  writing  this  for  to-morrow's  post  as  I  so  often 
do,  though  the  date  makes  the  letter  seem  a  day  longer 
on  its  way  to  you  than  it  really  is  —  for  it  will  not  leave 
Versailles  till  to-morrow  evening  about  five.  But  when 
I  have  put  off  writing  till  the  day  itself  I  have  often  been 
prevented  from  writing  at  all  before  post-time. 

I  got  up  at  5.30  this  morning  and  went  to  the  hospital, 
as  the  thousand  wounded  were  to  have  arrived  at  6. 
However,  fresh  telegrams  had  arrived  and  they  were  not 
expected  till  8.30  or  9,  so  I  said  Mass  in  my  chapel  there, 
came  home  to  breakfast,  and  went  back  about  9. 

One  thousand  and  seven  fresh  patients  arrived  from 
the  front,  but  a  very  few  really  very  bad  cases. 

I  spent  the  day  in  the  hospital  going  round  and  finding 
out  the  Catholics,  and  so  took  no  walk. 

After  I  came  in  about  five  I  did  not  go  out  again,  but 
sat  in  my  window  reading  Alison. 

The  trees  are  getting  lovelier  every  day,  and  there 
is  a  wonderful  border  of  tulips  in  this  garden,  a  blaze 
of  many  colours,  and  some  very  wonderful  ones. 

But  the  horticulteury  my  landlord,  has  only  one  man 
and  a  woman  to  work  for  him  instead  of  the  sixteen  he 
usually  employs:    all  the  rest  gone  to  the  war. 

I  cannot  tell  you  what  nice  and  really  good  people 
he,  his  wife,  and  their  two  girls  are.  They  only  think 
of  pleasing  me  and  not  at  all  of  making  money  out  of  me. 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother        169 

The  woman  is  one  of  the  best  I  ever  met,  and  I  am  indeed 
lucky  that  the  good  nuns  recommended  me  to  her  kind 
care.  Goodness,  simple  and  honest  goodness,  is  written 
in  every  line  of  the  poor  woman's  face.  Why  "poor 
woman"  .^ 

I  will  tell  you. 

You  must  know  that  she  speaks  French  with  a  strong 
provincial  accent,  and  I  thought  it  was  Alsatian.  Yes- 
terday I  said  to  her  "Madame,  you  are  not  of  Versailles.?" 
"Oh,  Monseigneur,"  she  cried,  clasping  her  hands,  and 
bursting  into  tears,  "I  am  a  German.  And  the  Germans 
have  been  so  wicked:   and  it  is  terrible  for  me." 

She  and  her  husband  are  only  French  by  naturalization, 
but  have  had  their  home  here  twenty-two  years.  Of 
course  I  comforted  her,  and  said  that  there  were  many 
good  Germans,  and  that  it  would  be  monstrous  to  blame 
her  for  what  some  of  her  countrymen  had  done. 

But  she  is  very  unhappy,  and  perhaps  frightened. 

0  dear!  This  war,  what  misery  it  brings  upon  the 
innocent.   .  .  . 

Yesterday,  and  to-day,  have  been  very  sultry,  and  it 
tried  to  thunder  last  night  and  to-night,  but  made  no 
great  hand  of  it. 

All  the  Canadian  wounded  I  have  met  here  are  Eng- 
lish, or  American! 

Now  I  must  stop;  take  good  care  of  yourself,  and  with 
best  love  to  Christie. 

Sunday  Mornifig,  6.30,  May  2,  191 5 

1  AM  writing  this,  as  you  see,  rather  early,  before 
beginning  to  dress:  because  after  Mass  I  come  home  here 
to  breakfast,  and  am  then  starting  for  Paris  to  see  my 
wounded  friend  C,  who  has  been  moved  from  Montreuil 
to  the  Salpetriere  Hospital,  in  Paris,  but  on  the  side  of 
Paris  farthest  from  Versailles.  It  will  take  an  hour  and 
a  quarter  if  not  more  to  get  there,  and  I  must  be  back 
for  my  evening  service  at  5.30. 


170       John  AyscougFs  Letters  to  his  Mother 

Yesterday  morning  I  got  a  note  from  the  Colonel  ask- 
ing if  I  would  like  to  motor  in  to  Paris  to  attend  a  concert 
given  for  wounded  soldiers,  and  I  said  yes.  We  started 
at  quarter  to  one  and  instead  of  taking  either  of  the 
great  roads  (on  the  left  bank  of  Seine,  or  right)  we  went 
through  the  forest  of  St.  Cloud,  and  then  the  Bois  de 
Boulogne:  a  most  enchanting  drive.  The  trees  just  in 
their  tenderest  leaf,  most  exquisite. 

The  concert  was  at  the  Trocadero,  and  we  had  splendid 
places,  so  had  our  wounded  men,  of  whom  we  took 
three  large  motor-ambulances  full.  I  never  in  my  life 
was  present  at  any  entertainment  so  interesting.  The 
performers  were  the  stars  of  all  the  theatres  in  Paris: 
the  programme  v^^as  very  long,  three  and  a  half  hours, 
but  not  a  tedious  item  on  it.  The  five  thousand  wounded 
French  soldiers  in  so  many  different  uniforms  made  a 
most  wonderful  "house,"  and  the  enthusiasm  for  some 
of  the  items  of  the  programme,  everyone  standing  up, 
was  pathetic,  touching,  moving,  exciting.  I  send  you 
the  programme,  and  a  song  we  all  sang  together,  also 
an  "image,"  a  little  picture  of  which  everyone  got  a  copy; 
everyone  (five  thousand!)  also  got  a  bouquet  of  Hly-of- 
the-valley,  a  pipe,  cigarettes,  etc. 

Quite  punctually  at  two  o'clock  the  President  of  the 
Republic,  attended  by  his  staffs,  entered  the  presidential 
box;  the  Marseillaise  was  played,  and  everyone  stood. 
After  an  overture,  by  the  Band  of  the  Garde  Republicaine 
(the  finest  miHtary  band  in  Paris),  the  President  of  the 
Chamber  of  Deputies  made  a  speech,  of  which  I  both 
heard  and  understood  every  word.  Then  came  the  songs, 
recitations,  dances  —  quite  exquisite,  and  most  simple, 
graceful  and  charming:  also  divertissemefits,  little  pieces, 
half  acting,  half  singing,  but  very  short. 

The  whole  thing  was  an  act  of  respectful  gratitude, 
a  testimony  of  admiration  and  veneration,  often  expressed, 
to  the  heroes  whose  broken  bodies  had  stood  between 
the  homes  of  those  who  ofi^ered  the  fete,  and  invasion. 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother       171 

The  final  item  was  quite  magnificent:  first  came  bodies 
of  soldiers  in  old-time  dress,  starting  for  a  war,  and  being 
bidden  God-speed  by  the  villagers,  the  chateau-folk,  etc. 
Then  many  more  of  different  periods.  Finally  a  detach- 
ment of  present  day  chasseurs  (each  of  these  groups 
played  its  own  music)  and  in  front  was  a  magnificent 
silk  and  gold  tricolour:  as  they  deployed,  "France," 
dressed  simply  in  unnumerable  folds  of  white,  with  a 
huge  blue  and  huge  red  sleeve,  passed  to  the  front,  and 
the  Marseillaise  was  sung  as  well  as  played:  each  of  the 
principal  performers  took  a  verse,  then  she  took  hands 
with  the  rest:  the  whole  house  standing,  saluting  the 
Tricolour,  and  singing  the  final  words  of  each  strophe. 

The  enthusiasm,  the  passio7i  of  these  people's  love  for 
France,  was  quite  terribly  pathetic  and  moving.  Re- 
member the  soldiers  listening  had  all  suffered  for  France: 
many  I  saw  were  blind,  blind  forever:  many  armless; 
not  one  there  that  had  not  faced  the  invader  and  done 
his  bit  to  push  him  back.  In  my  life  I  never  took  part 
in  any  scene  so  thrilling,  or  so  memorable. 

Now  I  must  dress.  .  .  . 

I  want  the  programmes,  etc.,  all  kept,  please. 


Monday,  May  3,  191 5 

This  morning  I  received  your  letter  of  Friday,  the 
first  for  two  or  three  days.  I  was  beginning  to  fear 
you  might  be  seedy.  I  have  a  cold  myself  and  am 
rather  hoarse;  the  weather  was  so  sultry  last  week  I 
was  always  peeling  off  my  tunic  and  sitting  in  shirt  and 
trousers:  then  yesterday  morning  I  sat  writing  to  you 
in  my  pyjamas  before  dressing  to  go  to  Mass,  and  that 
finished  it!  The  cold  makes  me  feel  very  stupid,  so 
don't  expect  much  of  a  letter.  We  have  heard  no  more 
news  of  our  removal  to  Calais,  but  so  far  as  we  know  we 
shall  move,  though  perhaps  not  quite  at  once.     In  any 


172       John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

case  the  address  will  be  just  the  same.  I  don't  think 
the  journey  would  cost  me  much,  as  I  should  travel 
on  a  pass. 

Now  I  must  go  to  the  hospital. 

You  said  the  sultry  weather  had  made  you  feel  blue: 
cheer  up,  my  dear,  cheer  up,  and  we  shall  all  be  happy 
together  again  soon. 

Tuesday  Evenings  May  4,  191 5 

My  cold  was  rotten  last  night  and  this  morning,  and 
I  did  not  write;  but  now  it  has  passed  its  worst  and  is 
beginning  to  make  preparations  for  departure. 

Meanwhile  it  is  wonderfully  hot  weather  —  like  a 
sunny  sirocco,  not  the  grey  sort.  It  poured  all  last 
night,  and  the  extreme  heat  of  the  ground  sent  it  all  up 
again  in  steam.     That's  what  makes  the  heat  oppressive. 

To-day  I  see  the  swallows  have  arrived.  I  heard  the 
cuckoo  long  ago,  even  at  Dieppe;  but  here  the  great 
feature  is  the  nightingales:  I  never  heard  them  so  regular 
in  their  permanence!  In  spite,  however,  of  all  the  poets' 
flattery,  I  don't  think  their  melody  lovelier  than  that  of 
the  thrush  or  blackbird,  certainly  not  than  that  of  the 
thrush. 

This  afternoon  after  luncheon  I  had  a  long  stroll  in  the 
glades  and  groves  of  the  Little  Trianon:  it  is  much  love- 
lier than  when  I  arrived,  so  many  more  trees  are  in  leaf 
or  blossom. 

I  went  early  and  there  were  very  few  people;  here  and 
there  a  quiet-looking  lady  reading  or  working  under 
a  tree. 

The  MS.  of  the  ''Sacristans"  arrived  some  time  ago: 
the  one  I  wanted  was  "Poor  Eleanor,"  which  no  doubt 
will  turn  up. 

You  say  "what  Bishop.^"  in  reference  to  my  mention- 
ing the  Bishop.  The  Bishop  of  Versailles.  This  is  a 
Cathedral  town,  and  the  diocese  quite  enormous.  Only 
the  Seine  divides  it  from  the  Paris  diocese. 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother       173 

Thursday y  May  6,  191 5 

My  laryngitis  is  really  better,  but  not  gone:  this 
moist  heat  —  (really  great  heat)  doesn't  suit  me  a  bit. 
However,  to-day  I  can  talk  intelligibly;  before  I  could 
only  whisper,  or  whistle  or  squeak  like  a  corn-crake. 

The  night  before  last  the  people  here  were  quite  excited 
by  a  big  airship  floating  about  over  our  heads,  pursued 
everywhere  it  went  by  search-lights  (it  looked  very 
pretty).  But  I  guessed  at  once  it  was  a  French  one, 
come  to  practise  a  surprise  air-visit  by  night,  and  so  it 
was. 

I  sent  off  the  box  containing  clothing,  etc.,  yesterday; 
it  will  take  some  time,  as  it  had  to  go  by  ordinary  rail. 

The  only  thing  for  you  in  it  is  a  pair  of  new  scissors! 
Don't  let  Mary  throw  away  the  stones;  the  smaller  ones 
are  pebbles  I  picked  up  at  Dieppe:  the  large  one  is  a 
stone  from  the  drawbridge  at  the  Castle  of  Arques,  over 
which  Drogo  walked  forth  on  his  way  to  England,  never 
to  return.  I  value  it  and  want  to  keep  it.  Our  trees 
out  here  must  be  far  more  advanced  than  yours:  they 
are  now  at  their  loveliest. 

I  have  at  last  got  you  the  new  post-card  book  and  send 
it  to-day:    it  will  hold  a  good  many. 

I  hope  to  visit  St.  Germain,  Marly,  and  Malmaison, 
but  they  are  not  very  easy  to  reach  from  here  unless  one 
has  a  motor,  and  besides  one  can't  be  always  running 
off. 

Now  I  must  stop  —  a  very  dull  letter,  you  will  very 
truthfully  say. 

Thursday  Evening,  May  6,  191 5 

Besides  all  the  letters  that  came  early  this  morning, 
another  arrived  later  in  the  day  from  you.  It  has  no 
date. 

This  afternoon  after  some  work  at  the  hospital,  and 
before  some  more,  I  trotted  off  to  the  Petit  Trianon  to 


174       John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

see  the  interior.  It  did  not  take  long;  the  palace  is 
very  small.  Quite  near  is  the  grotto  where,  as  I  told  you, 
Marie  Antoinette  was  sitting  when  a  page  came  (on 
October  5,  1789)  to  tell  her  that  the  horrible  Paris  mob 
was  attacking  the  palace  at  Versailles.  The  King  was 
out  hunting.  She  at  once  rose  and  returned  to  the 
palace  at  Versailles  and  never  again  saw  Trianon.  At 
Versailles  the  mob  were  murdering  her  guards  and  her 
servants;  and  that  evening  she  and  the  King,  with  their 
children  and  Madame  Elizabeth,  were  compelled  to 
accompany  the  mob  to  Paris  —  the  heads  of  their  slaugh- 
tered guards  carried  on  pikes  beside  them.  The  journey 
took  seven  hours  and  ended  at  the  Tuileries,  where  they 
were,  in  fact,  imprisoned. 

I  have  finished  the  two  volumes  of  Alison  which  end 
in  the  King's  death;  what  a  man  he  was!  Certainly 
the  purest  and  most  unselfish  of  kings;  and  what  a 
miracle  of  heroism  she  was. 

Indeed  nothing  in  your  letter  interests  me  more  than 
the  reminiscences  called  up  by  my  mention  of  Alison. 
I  always  love  to  hear  you  speak  of  your  childhood,  and 
its  memories;  and  I  am  never  tired  of  them.  Certainly 
I  will  find  time  to  write,  as  Pierce  asks,  to  Mr.  Cameron. 
How  can  I,  who  find  time  to  write  daily  to  three  or  four 
Frenchmen,  pretend  that  I  can't  make  time  to  write 
to  him?  During  the  war  I  have  given  up  all  attempts 
to  "write,"  i.e.  for  the  press:  but  this  long  rest  was  really 
needed.  My  brain  was  getting  over-written,  and  I  shall 
write  ten  times  better  for  the  long  rest,  and  have  a  vast 
new  fund  of  interest  and  observation  to  draw  on.  So 
everything  works  out  for  the  best. 

Now  good-bye.  My  cold  is  far  better;  the  voice 
nearly  come  back  and  no  cough  or  very  little. 

I  don't  care  much  for  the  tottery  old  representatives 
of  the  old  regime  one  meets!  I  am  a  fervent  monarchist, 
but  why  didn't  they  keep  their  monarchy?     It's  no  use 


John  Ayscoiigh's  Letters  to  his  Mother       175 

now  crying  over  spilt  milk,  and  the  Republic  isn't  going 
to  go. 

May  7,  191 5 

I  WROTE  you  a  meagre  "Good  night"  in  place  of  a 
letter  last  night  and  this  morning  —  Wednesday  morn- 
ing—  an  equally  hurried  "Good  morning"  to  enclose 
a  small  cheque. 

To-night  I  have  not  much  more  material  for  a  letter, 
as  all  I  have  done  since  was  to  go  to  Paris  at  midday, 
and  spend  the  afternoon  till  five  with  my  godson.  It 
was  not  one  of  his  days  of  "permission,"  i.e.,  he  could 
not  come  out,  so  all  the  time  was  spent  in  his  big  hospital. 
We  divided  it  between  his  ward  and  the  garden;  some- 
times sitting  on  a  bench  under  the  fresh  green  trees  of 
the  latter,  sometimes  walking.  He  walks  better,  and 
without  crutches,  but  soon  tires;  he  lost  so  much  blood 
and  his  wounds  were  so  many. 

The  ward  is  not  at  all  like  one  of  ours  m  No.  4  General 
Hospital:  it  dates,  I  should  say,  from  the  end  of  the 
seventeenth  century,  and  is  very  low,  with  frowning  old 
beams,  very  gloomy,  and  vv^ith  a  grizzly  brick  floor  — 
a  sort  of  attic.  Our  own  hospital,  installed  in  a  magni- 
ficent, quite  new  hotel,  is  all  light,  freshness,  and  comfort, 
beautifully  airy,  and  splendidly  fitted  up.  The  Sal- 
petriere  is,  however,  a  fine  old  place,  with  immense 
blocks  of  building  covering  a  vast  space,  and  very  pretty 
old  gardens. 

Besides  the  thousands  of  wounded  soldiers,  the  Sal- 
petriere  contains  many  lunatics  whom  one  does  not  see, 
as  they  are  in  quite  a  different  part  of  it;  and  a  number 
of  old  broken-down  folk,  whom  one  does  see  sunning 
themselves  in  the  garden.  F.  has  mad  countless  friends 
among  these  poor  old  creatures,  and  they  turn  adoring 
eyes  on  him  as  he  passes.  He  has  very  grave  eyes, 
but  is  a  cheery  and  amusing  person,  and  he  compliments 
me  by  saying  that  in  spite  of  having  to  use  a  language 


176       John  AyscougFs  Letters  to  his  Mother 

that  I  do  not  speak  correctly,  though  fluently,  I  am 
very  witty  in  French!  So  there!  No  doubt  you  think 
I  talk  French  perfectly;  but  that  I  never  shall.  I  doubt 
if  anyone  who  has  not  spoken  it  as  a  child  ever  does  learn 
to  speak  French  really  well,  i.e.,  true  French.  The  whole 
form  of  the  language  is  different  from  ours,  and  its  way 
of  arranging  ideas.  Italian  is  much  more  like  English 
in  that  way.  Certainly  I  have  made  progress  lately:  but 
until  I  went  to  Dieppe  I  was  almost  entirely  with  Eng- 
lish people  and  had  few  opportunities  of  practice:  and 
even  here  I  pass  most  of  my  time  among  the  English, 
in  the  hospital,  and  so  get  less  practice  than  you  would 
think. 

I  am  now  quite  well.  But  I  intend  giving  my  mouth 
a  rest  before  having  the  other  two  teeth  out.  They  do 
not  ache  at  all,  but  one  is  badly  broken  and  should  come 
out.  It  has  been  really  cold  to-day,  which  I  have  not 
disliked  at  all.  There  is  a  very  beautiful  tree  in  flower 
now,  lots  of  them  in  the  gardens  of  the  Salpetriere,  and 
lots  by  the  Seine  in  Paris:  a  big  tree,  not  a  shrub,  cov- 
ered with  masses  of  purple  flowers  —  the  soft  lavender- 
purple  of  parma  violets.  You  cannot  think  what  a 
charming  little  journey  it  is  in  to  Paris:  the  suburbs 
of  Paris  toward  Versailles  are  enchanting.  A  long  valley 
between  wooded  hills  and  all  the  houses  dotted  among 
the  trees  in  delightful  gardens.  Lilac,  white  and  purple; 
may,  white  and  crimson;  and  numbers  of  others  flower- 
ing trees  everywhere.  In  this  garden  there  are  very 
pretty  double  white-hlac  trees,  and  the  blossoms  look 
rather  like  huge  spikes  of  white  stocks. 

Now  I'm  off"  to  bed.  God  bless  your  sleep,  my  dearest 
darling,  and  send  you  only  happy  dreams.  I  say  many 
Masses  for  you. 

Saturday  Evening,  May  8,  191 5 

Your  dear  letter  of  Wednesday  morning  arrived 
this  morning,   and  at  the  same  time  one  from  Christie 


John  Ayscough^s  Letters  to  his  Mother        177 

that  had  been  wandering  all  over  the  place:  she  also 
had  put  No.  4  British  Expeditionary  Force. 

The  idea  of  a  fire  in  a  bedroom  made  me  compassion- 
ate you,  for  here  we  have  had  the  most  sultry,  siroccy 
weather  I  ever  knew  out  of  Malta;  a  sort  of  weather 
I  hate,  as  it  always  makes  me  feel  weak,  and  if  I  catch 
cold  (as  I  generally  do)  I  feel  much  more  uncomfortable 
than  with  a  cold  in  good,  honest  cold  weather. 

My  present  cold  and  laryngitis  is  nearly  gone,  and 
to-day  I  feel  more  myself.  I  only  wrote  a  line  yesterday 
as  I  was  feeling  horrid  after  the  extraction  of  a  tooth  in 
four  goes!  I  shall  take  a  few  days'  rest  before  having 
another  hauled  out. 

To-day  we  are  all  talking  and  thinking  of  the  "Lusi- 
tania."  I  hope  (we  don't  know  here  yet)  it  will  turn 
out  that  no  lives  were  lost, 

George  Parker  has  sent  me  a  large  portrait  group  of 
his  clan,  and  I  will  send  it  home.  About  half  of  them 
are  cousins  of  mine,  nephews  and  nieces,  or  grand-nieces 
and  nephews  of  my  father:  and  they  all  look  monuments 
of  British  respectability. 

The  azaleas  in  this  garden  are  coming  out  and  are  very 
pretty,  especially  a  common  sort  that  I  always  loved, 
with  rather  small,  flame-coloured  flowers.  The  Custs 
and  the  Jebbs  of  the  Lythe  used  to  have  these  in  their 
gardens. 

My  landlord  has  got  hold  of  a  lot  of  French  soldiers 
to  dig  up  and  tidy  up  his  garden  for  him;  and  they  work 
very  well  and  quickly.  I  reward  them  with  "English" 
cigarettes  and  with  chocolates. 

During  these  last  nights,  dull,  heavy,  hot,  and  moist, 
the  nightingales  have  been  less  vociferous,  and  I  have 
not  minded:  they  were  really  rather  noisy  early  last 
week. 

I  send  the  portrait-cards  I  mentioned.  Louis  XV  is 
handsome,  isn't  he?  But  he  was  a  heartless  scamp. 
Do  you  remember  how  one  wet  afternoon  he  stood  at 


lyS       John  Ayscouglo  s  Letters  to  his  Mother 

2i  window  of  the  palace  here,  and  watched  the  last  depar- 
ture of  his  dead  friend,  Mme.  de  Pompadour,  and  said, 
coolly,  "Madame  has  horrid  weather  for  her  promenade." 

Louis  XVI  is  not  handsome  at  all,  but  "handsome  is 
as  handsome  does."  The  portrait  of  Marie  Antoinette 
is  after  Madame  Vigee  Lebrun's  very  famous  one.  I 
think  the  poor  little  Dauphin,  ("Louis  XVII")  very 
charming,  and  a  clever-looking  little  lad  —  they  made 
an  idiot  of  him  by  drink,  etc.,  before  he  died.  Madame 
de  Lamballe  was  Marie  Antoinette's  dearest  friend:  and 
it  was  her  lovely  head  that  the  mob  hoisted  on  a  pole 
under  the  Queen's  prison-windows  —  and  awful  bits  of 
her  poor  modest  body. 

I  am  glad  you  enjoyed  my  account  of  the  Trocadero 
Concert;  it  certainly  was  wonderful,   and  unforgettable. 

I  am  very  glad  you  sent  something  to  Sister  Theresa 
Plater.     She  has  a  Jesuit  brother  to  whom  I  am  devoted. 

Now  I  must  shut  up. 

Wednesday^  May  12,  191 5 

My  cold  is  nearly  gone,  though  not  quite:  the  throat 
still  hurts  a  little,  but  the  pastilles  I  got  from  the  French 
chemist  never  fail  to  relieve  it;  and  his  "syrop"  has 
practically  banished  the  cough.  The  same  splendidly 
fine  but  fresh  weather  continues:  last  week,  when  it  was 
so  terribly  hot,  there  was  constant  rain. 

Yesterday  afternoon,  while  I  was  working  in  the 
hospital,  I  came  across  Lady  Austin-Lee,  who  had  come 
out  from  Paris  to  visit  our  wounded.  I  had  just  written 
to  her  saying  I  could  not  lunch  with  her  to-day:  so  she 
made  me  fix  Saturday  instead.  .  .  .  She  had  the  Duch- 
ess de  Bassano  with  her,  a  really  delightful  elderly  lady, 
Canadian  by  birth,  widow  of  a  very  famous  Frenchman. 

.  .  .  After  tea  I  went  for  quite  a  long  walk  in  the  parks 
both  of  Versailles  and  Trianon:  they  were  looking  in- 
describably lovely,  and  at  the  Little  Trianon  the  quiet- 
ness  and   peace   was   marvellous.     There   was   hardly   a 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother        179 

soul  there,  and  no  sound  but  the  "roo-coob"  of  the  doves. 
You  must  understand  that  at  Trianon  there  is  no  attempt 
at  a  show  of  flowers  or  shrubs,  it  is  all  natural  looking: 
but  the  azaleas  were  something  indescribable:  in  one 
thicket  of  them  I  counted  nine  different  colours  — 
whitey-cream;  canary;  sulphur;  cinnamon;  flame- 
colour;  scarlet;  rose;  lilac;  salmon;  and  such  masses 
of  bloom,  as  big  as  a  giant's  feather-bed.  The  smell  of 
them,  of  the  Hlac  and  of  the  wistaria,  filled  the  whole  air. 
Now  I  must  go  to  the  hospital,  then  to  Paris  to  see 
C.  in  hospital. 

Thursday  Evening,  Ascension  Day 

This  morning  I  only  had  time  to  write  you  a  mere 
word  to  say  I  could  not  write!  A  great  many  wounded 
have  been  coming  in  lately,  and  the  proportion  of  badly 
wounded  very  high.  Almost  all  from  Ypres  —  it  is  quite 
frightful  the  losses  that  beastly  spot  has  cost  us.  And 
of  course  this  has  made  me  very  busy. 

I  came  in  to  get  my  luncheon  and  found  Vicomte  de 

firmly   seated   in   my  dining-room,  and   he,  having 

had  his  lunch,  was  determined  to  sit  and  jaw.  He  stayed 
ages,  and  at  last  I  really  had  to  get  up  and  pack  him 
off.  A  most  w^orthy  old  gentleman,  with  the  sad  disease 
of  nothing  to  do  and  a  vehement  desire  to  tell  me  all 
the  clever  things  he  ever  said  or  wrote. 

I  am  very  busy  in  the  hospital:  two  afternoons  each 
week  I  go  to  cheer  up  F.,  and  on  Saturday  I  am  lunching 
with  Lady  Austin-Lee. 

I'm  off  to  bed. 

Friday  Evening,  May  14,  191 5 

Another  very  uneventful  day  gives  me  again  very 
little  to  write  about.  I  have  been  nowhere  except  to  the 
hospital,  where  I  have  passed  most  of  the  day;  and 
seen  no  one  except  the  wounded,  and  Lady  Austin-Lee, 
whom  I  met  for  a  few  minutes. 


i8o       'John  Ayscouglo  s  Letters  to  his  Mother 

We  expect  many  more  wounded  to-night,  and  are  send- 
ing home  many  who  only  came  in  a  couple  of  days  ago. 
These  large  relays  of  wounded  are  a  result  of  the  defi- 
nite forward  movement  always  foretold  for  May,  and  I 
believe  we  really  are  making  ground  at  the  front,  and 
the  French,  too.  The  cost  in  life  is  terribly  sad,  but 
cannot  be  surprising. 

I  am  not  quite  so  uncomfortable  in  my  mouth  to-day, 
and  the  laryngitis  has  really  gone  now. 

That    Vicomte    de who    harried     me    yesterday 

is  a  Norman,  and  Norman-mad  like  grandpapa  —  he 
can  only  talk  and  think  of  the  Normans;  and,  oddly 
enough,  I  always  become  worse  than  indifferent  to  them 
when  I  have  to  do  with  someone  like  that. 

Your  letter  of  Tuesday,  a  particularly  nice  one,  came 
to-day;  I  am  so  glad  you  like  the  post-card  book,  and 
I'm  glad  you  agree  with  me  about  that  much  overrated 
fowl,  the  nightingale:  I'd  give  twenty  of  them  for  one 
thrush. 

From  what  you  say  about  Marie  Antoinette  I  fancy 
the  "Life"  of  her  you  have  been  reading  was  my  Madame 
Campan's  Memoirs  —  the  famous  schoolmistress  after- 
wards employed  under  Napoleon  I  to  teach  the  wives  of 
his  Dukes  and  Marshals  how  to  behave  like  court  ladies. 
It  is  interesting,  but  not  a  patch  on  the  later  works  like 
Le  Notre's.  I  suppose  the  other  book  you  are  reading 
is  some  Memoir  of  the  Duchesse  d'Angouleme,  daughter 
of  Louis  XVI  and  Marie  Antoinette,  and  wife  of  the  son 
of  Charles  X,  Louis  XVI's  brother.  Napoleon  said  she 
was  the  only  man  among  the  Bourbons  of  that  time; 
but  the  sufferings  and  the  horrors  of  her  childhood,  if 
they  did  not  embitter  her,  made  her  permanently  sad 
and  morose,  and  she  was  not  popular  after  the  Restoration 
—  she  could  not  forget;    and  no  wonder! 

I  know  what  a  dull  letter  this  is  —  but  when  one  has 
not  even  been  for  a  stroll  in  the  park,  what  can  one  find 
to  say.? 


John  Ayscouglos  Letters  to  his  Mother       i8i 

It  has  turned  very  cold  again  which  I  do  not  mind  at 
all;  what  I  loathe  is  the  sticky,  muggy,  hot  weather. 

Good  night.  I  duly  received  your  little  spray  of  **  For- 
get-me-not"—  did  you  think  it  necessary!  ! 

Saturday  Nighty  May  15,  191 5 

Your  letter  of  Thursday  reached  me  early  this  morn- 
ing —  in  less  than  two  whole  days:  so  we  are  getting  on! 
I  was  working  hard  in  the  hospital,  after  Mass  at  the 
convent,  till  noon;  then  I  caught  a  train  to  Paris  and 
lunched  with  the  Austin-Lees.  Then  I  trained  back  and 
went  straight  to  the  hospital  and  worked  there  till  dinner- 
time. Lady  Austin-Lee  informed  me  that  the  matron 
had  been  sounding  my  praises  to  her  because  I  am  so 
nice  to  the  men. 

That  is  all  my  day:   except  writing  letters. 

To-morrow  after  church  at  the  hospital,  and  a  little 
work  there,  I  am  off  to  Paris  again  to  spend  a  long  time 
with  F. 

I  am  not  idle;  but  my  doings  don't  give  much  to  write 
about,  do  they? 

Now  I'm  off  to  bed,  so  good  night. 

Monday,  May  17,  191 5 

Saturday  was  quite  cold,  yesterday  very  hot,  and 
to-day  a  deluge  of  cold  rain:  so  England  is  not  the  only 
country  with  an  inconsistent  climate.  It  is  not  muggy 
rain  this  time,  so  I  rather  like  than  dislike  it. 

I  got  up  early  yesterday  to  put  in  a  good  bit  of  work, 
before  nine  o'clock  Mass,  at  the  hospital:  after  Mass 
came  home,  had  my  tea  and  dashed  off  to  Paris,  where 
I  found  F.  awaiting  me  at  the  station.  During  a  stroll 
on  the  Boulevards  I  suddenly  felt  a  hand  on  my  shoulder, 
and  a  delighted  voice  said,  "Bickerstaffe-Drew!"  It 
was  Bourgade:  do  you  remember  him  and  Palluau  in 
1899?     It  amazed  me,  his  recognizing  me;  for  it  is  sixteen 


1 82       John  Ayscough^s  Letters  to  his  Mother 

years  since  he  saw  me,  he  never  saw  me  in  uniform,  and 
it  was  only  my  back  he  saw  this  time.  He  walked  along 
with  us  for  quarter  of  an  hour,  and  was  simply  overjoyed 
to  see  me  again.  He  looks  very  middle-aged,  and  also 
very  prosperous  and  amiable. 

He  was  full  of  enquiries  for  you,  too. 

And  that's  all  there  is  to  tell  you!  I  always  feel  a  pig 
when  I  put  you  off  with  one  of  these  scrappy  letters  — 
but  though  I  enjoyed  yesterday  very  much  it  was  not 
the  sort  of  day  to  provide  much  to  talk  about. 


Monday  Night,  May  17,  191 5 

Though  I  wrote  to  you  this  morning,  and  have  done 
nothing  since  but  work  in  the  hospital,  I  am  getting  my 
letter  for  to-morrow  ready,  because  I  expect  to  be  again 
busy  in  the  wards  all  day  to-morrow  till  after  post-time. 
Our  English  mail  came  in  to-day  later  than  usual,  and 
after  I  had  written  to  you.  It  brought  your  letter  of 
Friday.  I  am  so  sorry  this  wretched  paper  worries  you 
so,  and  I  will  be  sure  to  number  the  pages  in  future. 
Please  forgive  me  for  not  having  done  so  already.  Most 
modern  note-paper  is  folded  and  stamped  with  whatever 
device  it  bears,  Hke  this  paper:  but  I  have  always  told 
them  not  to  do  it  with  mine,  only  this  time  I  forgot. 

I  am  glad  you  liked  the  little  cutting  about  the  musk- 
rat.  I  hoped  you  would.  But  I  did  not  know  he  was 
an  old  friend  of  yours.  You  need  not  worry  yourself 
thinking  the  censor  keeps  back  some  of  your  letters  to 
me.  The  censors  have  nothing  to  do  with  letters  to 
members  of  the  Expeditionary  Force,  only  with  letters 
from  them.  No  incoming  letters  from  England  are 
submitted  to  the  censors:  the  moment  they  reach  the 
post  office,  they  are  given  out,  and  no  censor  even  sees  the 
outsides  of  them.  But  letters  to  chaplains  if  incorrectly 
addressed,  all  go  sooner  or  later  to  the  principal  chaplain's 
office,  to  be  re-addressed. 


John  Ayscouglos  Letters  to  his  Mother       183 

But  your  letters  are  all  correctly  addressed  now;  and 
they  come  in  very  reasonably  quick  time. 

I  had  a  talk  with  our  Colonel  to-day,  which  I  very 
rarely  have.  We  discussed  the  prospects  of  the  war. 
He  is  sanguine  and  thinks  Germany  is  done  for.  Cer- 
tainly both  we  and  the  French  are  pushing  her  as  she 
has  not  been  pushed  for  many  months.  I  have  always 
said  the  same  thing  —  there  might  at  any  moment 
come  a  sudden  collapse  of  Germany,  and  of  course  Italy's 
adhesion  (which  is  now  certain)  might  induce  that 
collapse. 

On  the  other  hand,  if  we  want  to  "fight  to  a  finish,^' 
i.e.,  till  Germany  is  "wiped  out"  —  then  the  war  might 
last  for  years!  For  every  German  would  fight  to  death 
rather  than  submit  to  that.  I  do  not,  however,  believe 
that  we  shall  really  fight  to  a  finish.  We  shall  be  content 
to  go  on  till  Germany  asks  for  peace.  She  will  have  to 
get  out  of  Belgium  and  France,  and  have  to  give  up 
Alsace  and  Lorraine.     Austria  will  lose  most. 

I  heard  a  most  astonishing  thing  yesterday  —  that 
many  of  the  French  monarchists  want  to  offer  the  throne 
of  this  country  to  King  Albert  of  Belgium!  It  only 
shows  how  little  they  think  of  the  Bonapartist  and 
Orleanist  pretenders.     To  me  it  seems  the  wildest  dream. 

In  Alison  I  have  just  been  reading  the  marvellous  and 
horribly  tragic  story  of  the  Peasant  War  in  La  Vendee 
against  the  Revolution:  of  absorbing,  though  very 
melancholy  interest.  If  England  had  kept  her  word  and 
sent  help  to  the  Vendeans  the  Revolution  would  have 
been  smashed  and  the  monarchy  restored,  whereas  we 
let  a  million  heroic  peasants  be  butchered. 

Tuesday  Night,  May  18,  191 5 

I  HAVE  been  hard  at  work  the  whole  day  in  the  hospital, 
and  am  so  tired  and  so  sleepy  that  I  am  only  going  to 
wish  you  good  night. 


184       John  Ayscough^s  Letters  to  his  Mother 

In  the  afternoon  I  met  Lady  Austin-Lee  and  the 
Duchess  of  Bassano  in  the  hospitah  I  didn't  leave  the 
hospital  till  seven,  and  then  went  for  a  short  stroll  in 
the  town  for  air  and  exercise.  Then  I  came  in,  dined, 
and  wrote  a  sheaf  of  letters  to  mothers  of  badly  wounded 
men.  It  is  a  work  of  great  necessity  and  charity,  but 
takes  much  time.  I  cannot  write  the  poor  things  short 
and  dry  letters,  but  must  try  to  cheer  and  comfort  them. 
Many  are  the  sons  of  widows,  or  grandsons  of  old  widowed 
women  who  have  brought  them  up,  and  one  knows  how 
—  at  best  —  a  letter  telling  of  severe  wounds  must  be 
grievous. 

I  am  much  better:  the  inflammation  of  the  alveolus 
almost  entirely  gone,  and  the  laryngitis  quite  gone. 

The  rhododendrons  here  are  getting  more  splendid 
every  day.     I'm  half  asleep!     So  good  night. 

Friday  Night,  9  p.m..  May  21,  191 5 

This  morning,  after  Mass  at  the  hospital  at  seven,  I 
came  back  here,  breakfasted,  and  worked  hard  at  letters 
all  morning.  All  afternoon  I  worked  in  the  hospital, 
and  then  came  home  to  tea.  After  which  I  felt  I  must 
have  a  walk,  and  went  ofi^  to  the  park  where  I  had  not 
been  for  ages.  I  found  the  trees  much  more  leafy  and 
the  chestnuts,  of  which  there  are  very  many,  all  banks 
of  white  and  pink,  or  red  blossom. 

Instead  of  taking  the  Trianon  side  of  the  park,  I  went 
in  by  the  Basin  of  Neptune,  and  down  by  the  Basin 
of  Ceres,  to  the  Tapis  Vert  (the  long  strip  of  lawn  leading 
down,  between  avenues,  from  the  great  facade  of  the 
palace  toward  the  large  Basin  of  Apollo,  beyond  which 
is  the  Grand  Canal).  Numbers  of  soldiers  (French), 
in  canoes,  were  disporting  themselves  upon  the  water, 
and  seemed  very  cheerful,  taking  great  delight  in  splash- 
ing one  another's  boats  unmercifully  with  their  oars.  .  .  . 
But   the   mosquitoes   were   ozvdacious.     (It   is    a   heavy, 


John  Ayscough^s  Letters  to  his  Mother       185 

hot  day.)  I  walked  as  far  as  the  star  I  have  marked  on 
the  card  and  there  sat  down  on  a  bench  and  talked  to  a 
French  artilleryman,  who  has  been  in  England  and  seems 
very  proud  of  it.  The  Menagerie,  opposite  the  Grand 
Trianon,  was  really  a  Menagerie  in  Louis  XIV's  time, 
but  is  now  some  sort  of  barracks. 

St.  Cyr  was  where  Madame  de  Maintenon  established 
her  Institution  for  daughters  of  poor  nobles,  where  she 
spent  all  the  time  she  could  spare  from  her  royal  husband. 
Toward  the  end  of  her  thirty-two  years  of  being  his 
wife  without  being  his  Queen,  she  seems  to  have  grown 
very  weary  of  her  palace  life,  and  glad  to  get  away  from 
it.  After  the  Revolution  St.  Cyr  became  a  military 
school,  like  Woolwich  (and  it  is  so  still),  and  there  Napo- 
leon I  received  his  later  training  as  a  soldier,  I  think. 

Yesterday  afternoon  I  had  to  attend  the  funeral  of  an 
English  officer,  an  aviator  killed  by  a  fall  of  the  machine. 
Not  a  Catholic,  so  I  did  not  officiate.  It  was  a  longish 
march  to  the  cemetery,  through  the  whole  length  of  the 
town,  much  over  two  miles.  The  Mayor  of  Versailles, 
and  a  number  of  French  officers,  and  perhaps  one  hundred 
French  soldiers  attended,  and  it  was  a  fine,  though  simple 
sight.  The  French  along  the  streets  showed  all  possible 
sympathy  and  respect.  The  cemetery  on  the  fringe  of 
the  town,  on  a  hillside,  running  up  into  a  long  wood,  is 
very  peaceful  and  beautiful. 

There  were  over  a  hundred  new  English  graves,  all 
of  soldiers,  and  we  noticed  that  every  one  was  carefully 
tended  by  the  French,  with  flowers  growing  and  in 
wreaths,  and  also  pretty  little  shrubs  put  to  grow  on  them. 
I  thought  this  very  kindly  and  tender  toward  strangers, 
none  of  whose  friends  could  ever  be  expected  to  thank 
those  who  showed  this  kindness  to  the  poor  foreigners. 
The  French  have  much  more  heart  and  sweetness  than 
English  people  give  them  credit  for. 

Besides  my  French  soldier  friends  I  have  troops  of 
little   French   friends   among  the   children,   who  waylay 


1 86       John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  bis  Mother 

me  to  demand  medals  and  tiny  crucifixes  to  send  to  their 
fathers  at  the  front.  They  are  dear  httle  creatures, 
and  it  always  touches  me  to  hear  their  prattling  talk 
about  the  fathers  they  are  so  likely  never  to  see  again 
till  they  meet  in  heaven.  And  it  touches  me  close  to  see 
the  trust  and  confidence  in  their  innocent  grave  eyes. 
They  always  speak  of  a  little  crucifix  as  a  "little  Christ." 
"Oh,  please,"  they  beg,  "give  me  a  little  Christ  to  send 
to  my  father  at  the  war.  He  is  in  the  trenches,"  or, 
"he  comes  from  being  wounded."  The  dear  French 
soldiers,  as  they  pass  by,  watch  us  with  gentle  smiles. 
If  I  should  live  to  be  very  old  I  should  never  forget  these 
wonderful  months  in  France,  and  all  the  great  love  it 
has  taught  me  for  our  vaHant  and  sweet-hearted  neigh- 
bours. It  is  only  these  things  that  salve  at  all  for  me 
the  pain  of  this  long  absence  from  you. 

I  am  glad  you  are  reading  "The  New  comes;"  I  love 
Colonel  Newcome  till  he  turns  against  Ethel;  then  I 
long  to  box  his  foolish  old  ears.  Thackeray  admired 
Master  Clive  much  better  than  I  do,  which  is  natural, 
as  he  thought  he  was  drawing  his  own  portrait  as  a 
youth,  and  I  do  not  blindly  admire  Thackeray.  His 
great  genius  was  half  cruel  and  he  loved  to  smell  out 
human  meannesses  and  falsenesses.  As  you  say,  the 
book  is  terribly  long-drawn,  and  it  shows  signs  of  a  great 
genius  tired  and  jaded.  Still  the  genius  is  there,  and 
there   are  exquisitely  beautiful  and   tender  things  in  it. 

To-night  at  my  dinner,  just  for  a  rest,  I  read  a  few 
pages  of  David  Copperfield:  and  it  was  a  rest.  Always 
talking  or  reading  a  foreign  language  is  a  sort  of  strain 
on  the  attention,  and  the  only  English  I  have  been 
reading  is  Alison,  whose  theme  is  intensely  interesting 
but  who  is  not  himself  very  light. 

Now  I  'm  off  to  bed. 


"John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother       187 

Saturday  Nighty  May  22,  191 5 

It  is  ten  o'clock  —  bedtime  —  and  I  am  not  going 
to  attempt  a  long  letter:  perhaps  I  shall  finish  this 
early  to-morrow  morning,  before  going  to  the  hospital 
for  Mass. 

Your  letter  of  Wednesday  arrived  this  morning  about 
midday,  just  as  I  was  starting  for  Paris  to  see  C;  and 
I  read  it  in  the  train, 

I  do  not  quite  twig  what  is  happening  on  your  side  of 
the  water  about  the  Cabinet.  I  read  a  French  evening 
paper  coming  back  from  Paris  in  the  train,  and  it  spoke 
of  all  sorts  of  changes  in  the  Ministry,  as  if  Mr.  Asquith 
and  Lord  Kitchener  were  both  going.  I  am  much 
flattered  by  your  estimate  of  my  opinion  concerning  the 
war:  but  I  know  nothing.  Italy  is  now  certain:  and 
her  adhesion  may  make  an  enormous  difference.  Unless 
Russia  takes  a  bad  knock  on  the  eastern  front,  Austria 
and  Germany  cannot  afford  the  vast  depletion  of  forces 
necessary  to  turn  a  strong  face  against  Italy:  if  Germany 
sends  many  men  south  from  the  western  front,  France  or 
we,  or  both  of  us,  are  likely  to  break  through.  If  a 
large  force  were  sent  south  from  the  eastern  front  Russia 
would  break  through.  You  will  see  that  the  ultra- 
bitterness  of  Germany  against  us  will  now  be  turned 
against  Italy,  and  much  more  reasonably,  for  we  were 
not  Germany's  ally  and  Italy  was. 

Germany  is  now  treating  America  so  carelessly  that 
I  believe  she  wants  the  United  States  to  declare  war; 
then,  with  Italy  also  against  her,  she  may  perhaps  say, 
"We  can't  fight  against  the  whole  world,"  and  begin 
to  hold  out  peace  overtures.  If,  however,  the  Allies 
ask  too  much,  she  will  go  on  fighting.  I  don't  believe 
for  a  moment  that  the  Emperor  Wilham  is  unpopular 
in  Germany,  or  even  less  popular  than  he  was  before 
the  war. 

I  heard  to-day  an  extraordinary  (and  quite  authentic) 


1 88       John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

instance  of  the  way  in  which  Germany  has  prepared 
everything  for  this  war  even  in  foreign  countries: 

A  French  general,  long  ago  in  the  early  part  of  the 
war,  pursued  by  a  German  force  too  strong  to  engage, 
came  to  a  river  (in  France,  mind,  this  was)  and  crossed 
it  by  the  bridge,  which  he  then  immediately  blew  up 
and  continued  his  march.  Close  to  the  other  side  of  the 
destroyed  bridge  was  a  factory:  and,  arrived  at  the  river- 
bank,  the  Germans  simply  went  to  the  factory  and 
brought  out  of  it  a  metal  bridge,  all  ready,  made  in 
compartments,  and  threw  it  across:  it  was  exactly  the 
width,  etc.,  of  the  destroyed  stone  bridge,  and  had  been 
duly  prepared  by  the  Germans  for  such  a  need,  and 
kept  ready  under  lock  and  key! 

Now  I'm  for  bed.  So  God  bless  you,  dearest,  and 
keep  you  safe  and  well.  I  shall  give  you  no  more  bulle- 
tins of  my  health,  as  I  am  all  right  again. 

Wednesday,  May  26,  191 5 

Your  letter  written  on  Sunday  has  just  come  and 
I  am  going  to  write  a  short  answer. 

I  do  hate  hot  weather  and  it  always  does  knock  all 
the  life  out  of  me. 

I  feel  very  pleasant  sitting  still  reading  in  my  room 
(it  is  beautifully  cool)  but  when  I  have  to  go  out  and  bustle 
round  it  is  very  different.  Unfortunately,  they  assure 
me  that  the  warm  weather  will  go  on  now  till  autumn! 

Yesterday  I  worked  in  the  hospital  all  morning  and 
afternoon,  then  came  in  and  had  tea:  then  went  for  an 
evening  stroll  in  the  park,  where  I  met  again  a  young 
Artillery-man  whom  I  had  met  before,  and  we  sat  under 
the  trees  by  the  Grand  Canal  and  chatted.  He  is  very 
well-educated  (a  clerk,  I  should  say,  in  some  business 
house)  and  quite  a  gentleman  —  fearfully  anti-Republican 
—  and,  poor  lad,  just  off  to  the  front.  Another  Artillery- 
man —  also    a    gentleman  —  joined    us,    whom    I    knew 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother       189 

before,  a  young  sculptor,  and  as  they  were  both  Parisians 
and  talk  lovely  French,  it  was  good  practice  for  me. 

Then  I  came  home  and  dined;  and  read  and  (dog-tired) 
slunk  into  bed. 

O  dear!  I  wish  it  was  always  winter!  I  am  worth 
triple  in  cold  or  cool  weather.  All  my  energies  melt 
away  in  hot  weather,  and  everyone  else  seems  so  delighted 
and  says,  "Is  it  not  a  dehcious  weather.^"  and  I  long  to 
smack  them! 

I'm  glad  their  Reverences  from  Salisbury  came  to 
look  you  up:  and  that  Father  Cashman  was  to  bring  you 
Holy  Communion. 

My  mouth  is  quite  all  right  now,  but  I  can't  face  the 
dentist  again  just  yet:  though  two  teeth  seriously  demand 
removal. 

How  I  laughed  when  I  read  your  saying,  "The  new 
scissors  are  so  good  and  sharp,  I  shall  lock  them  up." 
I  am  sure  that  one  of  these  days  you  will  start  locking 
up  your  food  directly  they  bring  it  you,  and  you  will  then 
die  of  starvation. 

Now  good-bye. 

Thursday,  May  27,  191 5 

Your  long  and  interesting  letter,  with  the  romance  of 
your  Aunt  Sally,  arrived  this  morning:  I  think  some  day 
/  might  try  my  hand  on  the  story.  Of  course  I've  often 
heard  you  and  Christie  talk  of  Aunt  Sally,  but  you  never 
told  me  this  romance  of  her  poor  life  before. 

The  nights  have  been  so  hot  that  I  have  had  very 
little  sleep,  but  to-day  began  cooler,  and  even  now  is 
less  hot  than  we  have  been  having  it.  The  worst  of  it  is, 
I  can't  induce  the  French  people  to  say  that  it  is  only 
a  temporary  wave  of  heat,  and  that  we  shall  have  cool 
weather  presently.  On  the  contrary,  when  I  ask  when 
it  will  be  cooler,  they  say  "At  the  end  of  August  —  a 
little."  But  I  think  that  is  blague:  they  imagine  we  get 
no  hot  weather  in  England,  and  so  they  want  to  brag 


190       John  Ayscougb's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

of  their  own;  they  all  think  rain  and  cool  weather  is 
a  thing  to  be  ashamed  of,  and  pretend  to  know  nothing 
about  it.  And  the  Versaillais  are  just  as  touchy  about 
their  climate  as  Mr.  Wodehouse  used  to  be  about  that  of 
Plymouth:  any  complaints  about  the  weather  they 
consider  a  personal  reflection  and  resent  fiercely.  Yester- 
day I  told  the  Director  of  the  Bank  of  France,  where 
I  get  my  cheques  cashed,  that  I  found  Versailles  relaxing, 
and  I  thought  he  would  have  assaulted  me!  "Versailles 
relaxing!  It  is  well  known  that  Versailles  is  the  health- 
iest town  in  France.  A  cHmate  without  parallel.  Re- 
laxing! Why,  Monseigneur,  are  you  not  aware  that  at 
this  moment  you  are  standing  on  a  higher  level  than  the 
pinnacles  of  Notre  Dame  in  Paris!  Relaxing!  Why, 
it  is  for  coolness  that  the  Parisiens  come  here.  .  .  . 
Pray,  Monseigneur,  do  not  say  that  Versailles  is  relaxing: 
for  you  are  not  the  one  to  state  an  impossibility.  .  .  ." 
I  really  was  afraid  he  would  cash  no  more  cheques  for  me, 
and  hurriedly  ate  my  words,  averring  that  no  doubt 
when  I  understood  it  better  I  should  know  that  Versailles 
was  as  bracing  as  the  North  Pole. 

Yesterday  I  went  to  Paris  at  midday  and  stayed  at  the 
Salpetriere  with  F.  till  five,  and  really  I  thought  Paris, 
though  very  hot,  was  drier  and  airier:  but  that  it  would 
be  high  treason  to  say  here.  The  whole  mischief  is  that 
the  air  of  Versailles  is  very  moist  from  the  immense 
number  of  trees:  and  moist  heat  is  more  trying  to  me 
than  dry.  I  have  always  preached  the  unhealthiness  of 
trees. 

If  I  don't  shut  up,  this  letter  can't  catch  the  post. 

May  28,  191 5 

I  PUT  off  writing  till  this  morning,  and  then  a  convoy 
of  wounded  arrived  —  the  first  for  ever  so  long,  and  I 
had  to  go  and  attend  to  my  duties  instead  of  writing 
letters.     It  is  not  a  very  big  batch,  but  over  three  hun- 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother       191 

dred,  and  they  are  all  from  that  eternal  Ypres:  as  a 
matter  of  fact,  very  few  Catholics  among  them;  but  still 
in  order  to  find  out  whether  they  are  Catholics  or  not, 
one  has  to  see  them  all. 

As  I  told  you,  I  am  out  of  sorts,  and  it  makes  me 
uncommonly  slack  and  lazy.  All  the  rain  we  have  does 
not  cool  the  au";  it  only  surcharges  it  with  moisture 
and  makes  it  heavy  and  oppressive.  I'm  not  a  bit  hot 
sitting  in  my  room,  but  when  I  try  to  do  anything  I 
feel  that  "the  grass-hopper  is  a  burden."  Fortunately, 
there  has  been  uncommon  little  to  do,  and  I  have  been 
able  to  take  it  just  as  easily  as. I  chose. 

My  soldier-servant  confesses  that  he  pocketed  letters 
to  you  twice  and  forgot  them:  I  "washed  his  head  for 
him,"  as  they  say  here,  and  he  won't  do  it  again.  He  is 
really  good,  as  good  a  man  as  I  ever  met:  but  he  has  a 
rotten  memory  (like  my  own)  and  being  in  love  makes 
his  worse.  He  is  quite  truthful  and  would  never  pre- 
tend he  hadnt  forgotten  when  he  had:  that's  one  good 
thing.  He  eats  like  a  lion  (four  lions)  and  is  as  thin  as 
a  ruler  —  the  flat  sort. 

Your  letter  of  Tuesday  came  this  morning.  Poor 
old  Pierce!  I'm  sure  he  needn't  be  apologising  to  him- 
self or  anyone  else  for  not  coming  to  Europe  to  fight. 
All  the  wrong  people  have  scruples  about  it:  there  are 
two  or  three  millions  in  Great  Britain  who  could  and 
should  come,  but  they  stick  at  home,  and  let  married 
men  and  only  sons  and  widows'  sons  come.  Lots  of 
the  wounded  we  get  here  are  quite  old  fellows. 

The  handkerchief  case  has  arrived,  and  if  I  had  been 
all  right  I  should  have  gone  to  Paris  with  it  this  afternoon; 
but  I'm  too  washed  out.  It  is  most  beautifully  made 
and  I'm  sure  Lady  Austin-Lee  will  be  delighted  with  it. 
Thank  you  ever  io  much  for  making  it. 

I  have  got  hold  of  Trollope's  "Is  he  a  Popinjay .'*"  and 
it  is  quite  a  treat  after  reading  nothing  but  history  and 
French  for  a  long  time,  though  it  is  not  one  of  his  first- 


192       John  Ayscough^s  Letters  to  his  Mother 

rank  books  —  about  on  a  par  with  "  He  Knew  he  was 
Right,"  though  less  depressing. 

You  need  not  bother  to  send  those  magazines  at  present. 

I  suffer  rather  from  French  priests  who  write  books 
and  will  want  me  to  read  them:  this  sort  of  thing,  "  Bombs 
and  the  Catholic  Church"  "Asphyxiating  Gases  and  the 
Revival  of  Religion  in  France."  They  always  assure 
me  that  they  give  me  full  leave  to  translate  their  master- 
pieces into  EngUsh.  "God  forbid,"  I  say  inwardly: 
but  it  isn't  so  easy  to  know  what  to  say  outwardly. 

There  is  Mme.  Beranek  to  bid  me  go  down  to  dinner. 
This  has  been  a  ramshackle  letter,  but  I  feel  ramshackle, 
like  a  very  badly  made  rag  doll  recently  rescued  from 
drowning  in  a  bucket  of  tepid  slops. 

So  I  will  say  good-night  and  God  bless  you. 

Sunday  Night,  garter  to  bedtime 

I  AM  beginning  a  letter  feeling  very  sleepy,  and  most 
likely  shall  leave  it  to  finish  in  the  morning. 

Monday,  May  31,  1915 

I  ONLY  got  SO  far  and  caved  in,  and  went  to  bed !  Not 
that  I  was  feeling  tired,  only  sleepy.  Since  the  cool 
weather  came  back  the  feeling  of  tiredness  is  gradually 
going  off.  To-day  it  is  even  cooler  than  yesterday, 
making  four  cool  days  in  a  row. 

Yesterday  I  did  not  go  to  Paris  to  see  F.,  who  is,  I 
believe,  coming  here  instead  to-day.  But  after  my 
letter  to  you  I  went  for  a  walk  in  the  Little  Trianon 
{i.e.,  just  about  the  time  all  France  is  at  luncheon)  and 
there  was  only  one  other  person  there  —  a  young  French 
soldier  sketching.  The  azaleas  are  still  in  bloom,  though 
going  off:  and  I  stole  some  good  slips  which  my  landlord 
says  he  can  make  grow  for  me.  It  was  all  very  lovely 
and  peaceful.     As  I  was  leaving  to  come  home  to  my 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother       193 

own  luncheon  thousands  were  pouring  in.  After  luncheon 
I  went  to  a  Kermesse  right  at  the  other  end  of  the  town, 
organised  by  a  Comtesse  Missiessy  for  the  poor  Belgians. 
She  had  asked  me  to  come,  and  was  evidently  extremely 
pleased  and  grateful  that  I  did.  She  is  quite  charming, 
of  Mrs.  Drummond's  type,  about  the  same  age,  with  the 
same  brilliant  complexion,  abundant  white  and  grey  hair, 
intensely  blue  eyes,  and  gracious,  friendly  manners. 
Only  she  is  not  nearly  so  tall  as  Mrs.  Drummond.  She 
has  a  charming  son,  also,  whom  I  took  a  great  fancy  to. 
I  bought  a  lot  of  things  to  send  to  my  French  soldiers  at 
the  front. 

Then  I  hurried  back  to  the  hospital  for  an  evening 
service  where  I  had  a  crowded  congregation  of  two. 

In  my  letter  to-morrow  I  shall  send  a  whole  batch  of 
portrait-cards:  these  really  are  very  interesting,  and 
especially  to  anyone  who  reads  much  French  history,  as 
I  do.  It  is  only  quite  recently  one  could  get  reproduc- 
tions of  these  famous  portraits,  which  are  nearly  all  of 
them  in  the  palace  here. 

Fifty  times  I  have  meant  to  ask  you  about  clothes  — 
summer  is  on  us  and  you  must  be  needing  some  replenish- 
ments:   do  please  tell  me  frankly  what. 

I  propose  a  light  silk  dress  —  you  have  only  the  very 
pretty  but  now  old,  lavender  one  —  something  of  that 
type:  I  should  say  two,  a  tus sor e-co\o\\r&di  one,  and  a 
lavender,  grey-blue,  or  lilac.  But  tell  me  about  etceteraSy 
millinery,  veils,  etc.,  that  you  want. 

Another  batch  of  wounded  has,  my  servant  tells  me, 
just  arrived  at  the  hospital,  and  I  must  go  round  there. 

With  best  love  to  Christie. 

Monday  Night,  May  31,  191 5 

Your  cheery  letter  of  Friday  arrived  this  morning 
enclosing  one  from  Alice,  to  whom  I  duly  sent  by  this 
post    the    portrait    of   Colonel    Drew.     The    same    post 


194       John  AyscougWs  Letters  to  his  Mother 

brought  me  Tit-Bits  (which  you  so  much  objected  to 
forward  to  me!)  from  which  I  see  they  have  awarded  me 
a  prize  of  fifty  pounds!  What  for,  do  you  think?  For 
the  following:  One  had  to  choose  any  word  out  of  the 
current  number  of  Tit-Bits,  and  then  give  three  other 
words  bearing  on  it,  the  first  and  last  of  which  three 
words  must  begin  with  a  letter  found  in  the  word  chosen: 
I  chose  "dollars"  and  made  "Don't  preclude  dolours." 
Doesn't  it  seem  ridiculous  to  earn  fifty  pounds  for  such 
appalling  rubbish?  All  the  same,  fifty  pounds  is  uncom- 
monly useful.  You  see  I  can  very  well  afford  you  some 
new  duds! 

I  always  felt  sure  I  should  gain  one  of  these  prizes. 
Ver  will  be  very  jealous:  I  think  he  never  won  more  than 
2/6! 

I  will  show  your  flower  to  M.  Beranek,  and  ask  him 
if  he  knows  what  it  is. 

I  had  a  very  gushing  letter  to-day  from  Mrs.  W.,  but 
written  just  like  a  housemaid's  letter:  no  pronouns,  this 
sort  of  thing — "Thought  I'd  write.  So  glad  get  your 
photo.  Very  good,  too.  Hadn't  time  say  good-bye  to 
Mrs.  Brent  'fore  leaving,"  etc. 

Do  you  remember  hearing  me  talk  of  my  young  brother 
officer.  Captain  H.  ?  He  has  gone  home  with  measles 
and  I  think  he  is  delighted! 

When  I  was  in  Paris  on  Friday  with  F.  we  were  driving 
in  the  Bois  de  Boulogne  and  there  was  a  German  "taube" 
miles  up  in  the  air,  hotly  pursued  by  two  French  aero- 
planes that  drove  it  away  very  promptly.  The  French 
don't  get  in  the  least  excited  by  such  trifles,  only  all  the 
smart  people  were  getting  cricks  in  their  necks  from 
staring  up  at  the  chase. 

F.  and  I  are  lunching  with  Lady  Austin-Lee  on  Thurs- 
day. 

I  suppose  the  little  "tapis"  (mats)  are  arrived  by 
now.  I  am  always  jeering  at  my  French  friends  for  the 
poverty  of  their  language  (their  great  boast  is  its  richness). 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother        195 

"You  call  a  carpet,  'tapis,'  and  a  table-cloth,  'tapis,' 
and  a  mat,  'tapis.'" 

Of  course  I  don't  believe  London  is  going  to  be  blown 

up,  or  the  Tube  railway.     But  lives  for  sensations, 

and  nothing  else  will  stimulate  his  "brain." 

I  am  not  at  all  likely  to  be  offered  leave,  and  do  not 
think  it  would  be  wise  to  ask  for  it.  Besides  it  could 
only  be  for  six  days  or  so,  and  they  would  have  to  put 
someone  else  here.  So  large  a  hospital  could  not  be  left 
without  a  chaplain:  and  whoever  got  in  would  be  sure 
to  want  to  stop  in.  Versailles  suits  me  down  to  the 
ground,  and  I  could  never  get  into  such  good  and  economi- 
cal quarters  elsewhere.  "Z,<2  vie  coute  chere"  in  France 
everywhere  at  present. 

I  took  you  to  Paris  in  miniature  yesterday  and  everyone 
was  enchanted  with  the  portrait;  only  they  were  rude 
enough  to  you  to  say  that  I  am  the  image  of  you. 

Last  night,  coming  home  in  the  train,  I  read  a  small 
but  very  important  paragraph  in  the  Liberie:  it  said 
that  rumours  were  being  spread  that  the  Pope  is  moving 
the  European  Powers  to  convene  a  conference,  with 
himself  as  president,  arbiter  or  umpire,  for  the  purpose 
of  trying  to  re-establish  Peace. 

The  importance  is  this  —  the  report  is  said  to  be  spread 
by  Germany  and  Austria:  if  so,  it  means  that  they  are 
looking  about  to  find  a  way  out  of  the  war,  and  to  "save 
their  face"  at  the  same  time.  I  believe  this  to  be  fully 
possible.  Italy  has  come  in  against  them:  America 
will  break  off  diplomatic  relations  very  soon  now:  Rou- 
mania  is  on  the  point  of  coming  in.  Well,  Austria  and 
Germany  may  very  probably  not  want  to  wait  for  that: 
Austria,  at  least,  knows  that  for  every  State  that  comes 
in  agamst  her  she  will  lose  a  big  slice  of  her  empire;  and 
both  Germany  and  Austria  would  much  rather  that  the 
plea  for  Peace  came  from  the  Pope  than  from  them. 
So  I  do  not  think  this  rumour  an  obvious  canard. 

Certainly  our  entering  on  the  war  with  the  tiny  army 


196       John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

we  then  had  was  a  marvel  of  pluck.  No  wonder  the 
Emperor  WilHam  thought  us  foolhardy.  He  knew  our 
numbers  very  well,  and  he  probably  knew  also  that  the 
French  army  was  unready.  He  has  learned  a  lot  since. 
That  England  can  make  an  army,  and  that  France  can 
mend  her  faults,  and  get  her  army  into  trim. 

About  Sir  J.  F.  and  Sir  H.  Smith-Dorrien  I  will  not 
talk,  because  I  never  do  talk  about  things  of  which  I 
know  nothing.  Those  sorts  of  rumours  do  great  harm 
and  the  vulgar  love  to  gobble  them. 

Of  course,  though  I  see  no  good  at  all  in  going  home 
for  a  few  days,  I  want  to  be  at  home:  I  am  not  tired  of 
France,  but  I  miss  my  home  every  day  and  all  day  long. 

Honestly,  I  think  the  complete  change  and  rest  of  a 
sort  (rest  from  literary  production)  will  have  added 
years  to  my  life,  and  given  me,  when  I  can  work  at 
writing  again,  a  new  lease  of  literary  power.  I  know  I 
was  getting  stale,  and  my  memory  and  fancy  have  been 
re-stored  with  an  immense  treasure-house  of  new  ideas, 
new  characters,  and  new  scenery. 

Now  I  will  bring  this  long  letter  to  a  close. 

It  is  still  pouring,  but  the  storm  rumbles  in  the  far 
distance. 

I  am  truly  delighted  to  think  you  are  going  to  have 
Alice  again,  even  if  only  for  a  bit. 

Best  love  to  Christie. 

Wednesday  Night,  June  2,  191 5 

I  HAVE  just  finished  my  solitary  dinner,  and  now  I  am 
going  to  chat  with  you  —  all  about  nothing  in  particular, 
because  there  is  nothing  in  particular  to  tell  you. 

Apart  from  the  fact  that  my  going  to  see  F.  is  a  great 
kindness  to  him  —  he  is  very  young  for  his  twenty-three 
years,  and  finds  himself  very  lonely  in  the  huge  Paris 
hospital  —  it  makes  a  great  change  and  relief  for  myself. 
The  work  at  the  hospital  here,  though  interesting  and 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother       197 

important  and  useful,  is  monotonous,  and  often  very 
sad,  to  one  whose  heart  has  always  been  too  soft;  and  I 
have  no  friend  here  at  all.  I  am  truly  attached  to  the 
poor  wounded  soldiers,  but  even  they  are  forever  on  the 
move;  the  men  who  came  last  week  are  gone  this,  and 
it  is  a  ceaseless  beginning  again  with  strangers.  .  .  .  Well, 
all  this  being  so,  I  find  it  an  immense  rest  and  relief  to 
my  mind  and  spirits  to  go  and  pass  some  hours  with  my 
dear  godson:  and  of  course  it  makes  it  much  nicer  to 
feel  that  my  going  sets  a  little  island  of  happiness  in  his 
big  sea  of  loneliness.  I  said  to  him  yesterday,  "Why 
did  you  choose  me,  an  old  man  and  a  foreigner,  for  your 
friend?"  "I  did  not  choose  you,"  he  answered  quietly. 
"God  sent  you  to  me  very  kindly  in  my  great  solitude. 
But  you  are  not  old :  nor  will  you  ever  be.  Nor  are  you 
a  foreigner:  your  land  is  mine  now,  and  mine  yours.".  .  . 

I  regret  to  say  it  is  getting  hot  again:  but  after  six 
cool  days  one  is  fresher  for  it:  and,  besides,  the  six  cool 
days  cheered  me  up  by  showing  that  one  need  not  really 
expect  months  of  unbroken  heat,  but  that  there  will  be 
little  refreshing  gaps.  Also  I  am  very  well,  and  the  cool 
days  have  taken  away  the  tired  feeling. 

I  hope  you  will  have  liked  the  little  series  of  brown 
portraits  I  sent  you  a  day  or  two  ago.  They  are  in- 
teresting and  not  common.  The  portraits  of  the  Comte 
de  Provence  (afterwards  Louis  XVIII)  and  of  the  Comte 
d'Artois  (Charles  X)  are  charming,  and  so  different 
from  the  well-known  portraits  of  them  as  elderly,  heavy- 
faced  kings.  They  were  both  of  them  younger  brothers 
of  poor  Louis  XVI  —  uncles  of  the  little  Dauphin  called 
Louis  XVII.  But  the  most  charming  is  the  portrait  of 
the  Due  d'Enghien  as  a  boy:  whom  later  on  Napo- 
leon I  caused  to  be  shot  —  the  great  crime,  as  it  was  the 
great  blunder,  of  his  reign:  which  his  mother  and  Jose- 
phine begged  him  in  tears  not  to  commit. 

Your  letters  seem  to  show  that  instead  of  growing 
older  you  are  growing  younger,  both  in  the  handwriting 


198         John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

and  in  the  stuff!  .  .  .  Now  I'm  going  to  bed.     So  God 
bless  you  and  send  you  only  happy  dreams. 

Friday  Evenings  June  4,  191 5 

I  DID  not  write  this  morning,  because,  for  some  reason, 
I  was  told  there  would  be  no  mail  to  England.  But  I 
am  writing  now  to  have  a  letter  ready  for  to-morrow's 
post. 

Your  letters  of  Monday  and  Tuesday  came  yesterday 
and  to-day. 

If  Mr.  Bonaparte  Stubbs  was  a  grandson  of  Jerome 
Bonaparte  he  must  have  been  so  through  Jerome's  first 
wife,  an  American  called  Patterson,  whom  Napoleon  I 
made  him  divorce,  after  which  he  married  a  daughter  of 
the  King  of  Wurtemberg,  and  became  himself  King  of 
Westphalia.  He  was  extremely  handsome,  and  very 
popular,  though  the  most  dissipated  of  all  the  Bonapartes 
—  in  fact  Lucien  and  Joseph  were  not  dissipated  at  all. 
He  was  by  far  the  youngest  of  the  Imperial  family  and 
only  died  in  i860,  and  I  cannot  quite  understand  his 
grandson  being  old  enough  to  marry  in  those  far-away 
days  of  which  you  speak.  Have  you  King  Jerome's 
portrait  ? 

I  send  another  sheaf  of  Napoleon  portraits,  some  quite 
new  to  me  and  very  interesting.  The  three  marked 
with  an  O  are,  I  think,  glorious:  the  beauty  of  the  face 
so  refined  and  noble. 

Portraits  of  Eugene  Beauharnais  are  not  common. 
He  was  much  nicer  than  any  of  Napoleon's  own  family 
and  much  more  loyally  devoted  to  him.  He  married 
the  King  of  Bavaria's  daughter  and  they  were  very 
happy,  though  she  had  hated  being  forced  to  accept  him. 

After  a  very  hot  day  it  is  a  lovely  evening  with  salmon- 
coloured  mountains,  that  no  Alpinist  will  ever  climb, 
hanging  in  a  turquoise,  green-blue  sky.  After  coming  in 
from  the  hospital  for  tea  I  resolved  to  forego  a  walk  in 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother        199 

the  park  and  tackle  neglected  correspondence  —  which 
I  have  been  doing,  seated  in  one  of  my  open  windows 
whither  I  have  dragged  my  table.  Some  French  soldiers 
are  working  in  the  garden.  They  never  seem  to  make 
their  geranium-coloured  trousers  dirty! 

Yesterday  I  went  to  see  C.  in  Paris,  and  we  again 
went  on  the  lake  in  the  Bois,  and  landed  on  a  pretty 
island  where  we  had  tea.  There  was  an  "artist"  paint- 
ing, near  a  brake  of  rhododendrons.  F.  insisted  on  our 
going  to  peep  .  .  .  you  never  saw  such  an  appalling 
mass  of  garish,  absurd  colours,  and  no  likeness  to  any- 
thing in  heaven  above,  or  the  earth  beneath.  I  fancy 
he  would  consider  himself  an  "impressionist,"  and  he 
certainly  conveyed  a  strong  impression  of  knowing 
worse  than  nothing  about  painting. 

They  say  my  dinner  is  ready,  and  after  it  I  shall  go  to 
bed  early  —  it  is  8.30  now;  for  last  night  I  wrote  letters 
till  two  in  the  morning,  and  have  been  very  sleepy  all 
day. 

Good-night,  my  dearest  darling,  and  know  that  many 
times  every  hour  I  think  of  you,  and  beg  Our  Lord  to 
fill  my  place  at  3^our  side  while  I  am  away,  and  of  His 
Mother  to  have  you  ever  in  her  sweet  and  tender  prayers. 

At  Mass  I  pray  above  all  for  you;  and  at  every  grace 
before  and  after  meals. 

Monday y  10  a.m.,  June  7,  191 5 

The  letter  you  ask  about  duly  arrived,  and  also  the 
miniature,  which  travelled  in  perfect  safety  and  without 
undue  fatigue.     You  look  quite  at  home  on  my  wall  here. 

I  send  another  batch  of  portrait-cards,  including  a 
couple  of  bad  hats.  .  .  . 

I  had  a  funeral  this  morning  at  seven  o'clock,  so  had 
to  be  up  early;  I  was  glad  they  fixed  it  for  that  early 
hour  .  .  .  for  the  heat  is  blazing.  Saturday,  yesterday, 
and  to-day  have  all  been  hot,  but  each  much  hotter  than 
the  day  before.     All  the  same  I  have  not  suffered  from 


200       John  Ayscough^s  Letters  to  his  Mother 

it,  which  shows  that  I  am  all  right  in  health:  I  suflFered 
so  much  before  because  I  was  run  down  and  weak. 

The  procession  at  the  convent  yesterday  afternoon 
was  very  pretty  and  touching:  the  park  lovely.  There 
were  crowds  of  wounded  French  soldiers,  and  some  of 
ours.  Everyone,  on  coming  away,  received  one  of  these 
little  prayers  and  medals,  so  I  send  you  mine. 

This  is  a  mere  scrap  of  a  letter,  but  I  want  to  get  round 
to  the  hospital  and  put  in  a  good  day's  work. 

Tuesday y  7  a.m.,  June  8,  191 5 

I  WONDER  if  chez  vous  the  heat  is  as  amazing  as  it  is 
here:  if  so  I  trust  that  you  have  at  least  a  breeze  to 
freshen  it.  It  is  regular  volcanic  heat,  and  I  am  sure 
there  has  been  a  huge  volcanic  dislocation  somewhere: 
all  Saturday,  Sunday,  and  Monday  the  air  was  filled 
with  a  sort  of  haze  that  might  be  volcanic  dust.  All  the 
same  I  do  not  feel  this  burst  of  heat  (which  is  much 
worse)  as  I  felt  the  last. 

Yesterday  was  a  quiet  day  and  I  was  at  work  all  the 
time  in  the  hospital,  where  it  was  really  cooler  than 
outside;  so  virtue  was  its  own  reward.  A  lot  of  the  men 
were  going  off  to  England  late  at  night  and  I  had  good- 
byes to  say;   the  men  are  always  going  and  coming  here. 

I  often  praise  French  things  to  you,  but  one  thing  they 
dont  understand,  and  that  is  ink!  I  have  never  got 
hold  of  a  decent  ink  here.  It  is  always  dirty  a  few  days 
after  you  begin  using  it,  clogging  the  pen,  and  besides 
its  colour  is  very  poor,  seldom  really  black,  but  a  poor 
brown.  Nor  is  their  stationery  as  good  as  ours;  in  fact 
all  the  best  comes  from  England. 

This  is  a  miserable  apology  for  a  letter:  but  yesterday 
I  saw  no  one  (except  the  patients)  and  my  brain  is  re- 
duced to  melted  butter  by  the  heat.  I  sleep  with  two 
windows  and  two  doors  wide  open,  but  still  it  is  too  hot 
with  one  thin  cotton  blanket  and  a  sheet. 


John  Ayscough^s  Letters  to  his  Mother       201 

I'm  glad  the  anecdote  about  the  Editor  and  Editress 
made  you  cackle.  Here  is  another  (different)  anecdote, 
which  made  F.  laugh. 

A  dear  little  boy  of  ten  or  so  was  bothering  me  a  few 
days  ago  to  give  him  a  medal. 

**No,"  I  said,  "don't  be  greedy.  I  have  given  you 
one." 

"Then  a  little  cross." 

"No.     I  gave  you  one  three  weeks  ago." 

"Oh,  but  this  time  it  is  for  my  father,  he  is  at  home. 
He  has  come  home  badly  wounded  ...  a  little  cross 
for  him." 

"No.     But  I  am  glad  he  is  badly  wounded.  .  .  ." 

"Glad,  Monseigneur!!" 

"Yes,  very.  He  is  very  lucky  to  be  badly  wounded! 
Last  time  you  mentioned  him  he  had  been  killed  at  the 
battle  of  the  Marne  nine  months  ago.  .  .  ." 

Tableau:  but  boy  quite  undefeated. 


Tuesday  Evening,  June  8,  191 5 

No  mail  to-day,  so  I  got  no  letter  from  you.  Almost 
every  day  I  do  get  one:  you  are  quite  splendid  about 
writing. 

To-day  has  had  three  climates!  It  began  intolerably 
hot:  about  eleven  turned  cloudy,  windy,  and  compara- 
tively cool;  about  two  got  hotter  than  ever;  and  about 
seven  turned  completely  cool  again!  And  the  French 
have  the  "neck,"  as  soldiers  call  it,  to  talk  of  the  incon- 
sistency of  our  climate. 

To-morrow  F.  and  I  lunch  with  Lady  Austin-Lee,  and 
go  on  to  tea  with  the  Duchess  of  Bassano,  with  whom 
also  we  lunch  on  Saturday. 

I  forgot  to  thank  you  for  sending  the  slip  about  old 
Lady  C.  I  can't  honestly  say  that  I  think  the  world 
will  lose  anything  by  her  leaving  it:   nor  do  I  think  that 


202       John  AyscougFs  Letters  to  his  Mother 

she  was  at  all  good-natured,  if  you  mean  amiable;  on 
the  contrary,  she  was  full  of  spite. 

Our  old  friend  Miss  Charlton  (who  only  knew  her  by 
hearsay)  once  said  a  very  true  thing  about  her:  "If  she 
had  only  been  of  shaky  morality  she  would  have  been 
forgiven:  but  she  was  bad  form  as  well."  And  so  she 
was  —  appalling.  She  would  say  things  so  indecent 
that  a  footman  would  have  been  ashamed  to  utter  them 
to  another  footman.  I  certainly  never  did,  or  could, 
repeat  them  to  you:  and  indeed  I  have  always  been 
rather  ashamed  of  my  visit  to . 

Our  hospital  is  three-quarters  empty  for  the  moment, 
we  sent  so  many  to  England  to-day;  but  no  doubt  it 
will  fill  up  again  all  too  soon. 

I  wonder  if  you  are  having  this  stewing  weather?  I 
hope  not,  for  it  is  enough  to  knock  the  strongest  person 
up.     Personally,  I  feel  like  a  stewed  rabbit. 

Even  since  I  began  this  letter  (I  have  dined  since)  the 
weather  has  changed  again,  and  it  is  stifling.  One  hour 
I  have  to  wear  my  thick  Norfolk  jacket  with  a  waistcoat, 
the  next  a  thin  alpaca  coat  and  —  Monsignor  under  it. 
The  alpaca  coat  was  in  rags,  but  the  French  are  splendid 
menders  and  it  is  as  good  as  new.  I  send  my  socks 
(with  holes  as  big  as  five-shilling  bits  in  them)  and  they 
come  back  quite  new! 

Though  I  grumble  so  about  the  heat  (which  is  really 
as  bad  as  Malta)  I  don't  feel  it  hadly  this  time.  That  is, 
it  does  not  knock  me  over  or  make  me  feel  weary  —  only 
healthily  cross.  F.,  who  doesn't  know  what  "cross" 
means,  is  extremely  puzzled;  when  I  am  in  a  bad  humour, 
he  looks  at  me  with  gentle,  troubled  eyes,  like  a  dog  whom 
one  has  told  to  "get  out."  I  am  really  so  ashamed  that 
it  is  teaching  me  to  be  less  cross.  It  is  a  wonderful 
gift,  that  gentle  sweetness  of  disposition. 

I  am  all  of  your  opinion  as  to  Pendennis  —  an  in- 
tolerable prig.  (The  rain  is  coming  down  in  buckets, 
Dieu  merci.)    Laura  was  much  too  good  for  him  —  indeed 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother        203 

the  best  of  Thackeray's  heroines,  most  of  whom  are 
nincompoops.  Still  Thackeray  is  always  worth  reading 
and  I'm  glad  you  are  doing  it.   .  .   . 

There  is  one  very  nice  officer  (doctor)  here  called 
Chavasse,  whom  I  knew  up  at  the  front,  and  I  am  so 
troubled  about  him:  he  cut  his  finger  deeply  the  other 
day  while  operating  on  a  gangrene  case,  and  he  went 
straight  and  had  the  flesh  of  the  finger  cut  out,  but  it 
is  not  in  a  good  way.     Say  a  prayer  for  him. 

Now  I'm  going  to  my  bed,  and  so  good-night,  and  may 
"sweet  dreams  attend  you"  as  young  Agnes  Meredith 
used  to  say  to  me.  .  .  . 

Well,  once  more,  good-night. 

Thursday  Afternooriy  4.30,  June  10,  191 5 

Your  letter  of  Monday  only  arrived  to-day,  on  the 
third  day;  one  or  two  recent  ones  have  arrived  on  the 
second  day,  but  perhaps  they  caught  the  midday  post, 
and  this  last  letter  only  caught  the  evening  post. 

It  is  only  4.30,  but  I  have  no  intention  of  going  out 
again:  there  is  a  thunder-storm  going  on,  very  black 
sky,  with  tall  grey  clouds  standing  slowly  across  it,  tons 
of  rain  falling;    the  lightning  mostly  rather  distant. 

So  I  shall  stop  here  in  my  room,  and  write  letters  at 
my  window,  while  the  garden  outside  gulps  down  the 
rain. 

To  go  back  to  yesterday:  at  twelve  I  caught  the 
electric  railway  to  Paris  and,  lo,  there  was  another  big 
thunder-storm  going  on.  (I  should  think  the  Eifi^el 
Tower  is  Lightning  Conductor  enough  for  all  Paris.) 

The  rain  had  stopped  when  I  reached  the  station  called 
Pont  de  I'Alma,  where  F.  was  waiting  for  me.  It  is  on 
the  left  bank  of  the  Seine,  and  Lady  Austin-Lee's  house  is 
in  the  Avenue  du  Trocadero,  just  on  the  side;  so  we 
crossed  the  bridge,  and  as  soon  as  we  got  to  the  other  side 
it  came  down  again  in  torrents,  and  we  had  to  get  into 


204       John  Ayscough^s  Letters  to  his  Mother 

a  taxi  —  to  go  about  a  hundred  yards!  It  was  a  very 
pleasant  luncheon-party,  though  Sir  Henry,  whom  I 
like  immensely,  was  over  in  London.  We  were  six; 
our  hostess;  a  very  nice  American  friend  of  hers,  Comtesse 
d'Osmoy,  about  thirty  or  thirty-two;  a  young  English- 
man called  Gunnis;  a  very  nice  Captain  O'Conor,  who 
talks  French  absolutely  like  a  Frenchman;  and  F.  and 
F.! 

Let  us  hope  this  thunder-storm,  the  longest  and  best 
we  have  had,  will  really  cool  us  down  again.  Do  you 
remember  how  I  used  to  be  upset  by  thunder-storms? 
They  made  me  quite  ill  and  utterly  miserable.  I'm 
glad  to  say  that  has  quite  gone,  and  I  am  no  longer 
upset  by  them. 

That  MS.,  "The  Sacristans,"  that  you  sent  to  me,  I 
administered  to  the  Catholic  World  of  New  York.  .  .  . 

I  assure  you  I  am  quite  delighted  that  you  like  these 
portraits,  and  a  few  years  ago  one  could  not  have  got 
them.  If  you  have  not  already  got  your  portrait  album 
let  me  find  you  one  here  or  in  Paris,  they  are  cheap  and 
nice  here.  .  .  . 

Yes,  Josephine  was  sacrificed  to  Napoleon's  ambition: 
but  it  is  fair  to  remember  that  she  had  never  cared  much 
about  him,  and  she  was  the  only  human  being  he  ever 
loved.  During  his  earlier  wars  he  was  writing  to  her 
almost  incessantly,  and  always  thinking  of  her,  while 
she  was  thinking  of  nothing  but  dress,  gaieties,  and 
gallantries.  He  forgave  her:  but  ever  afterwards  he 
had  a  sort  of  cynical  tolerance  for  her.  Also,  it  is  fair  to 
remember  that  their  marriage  was  no  marriage  at  all  in 
the  religious  sense  —  a  mere  civil  contract  during  the 
"Convention,"  when  religious  marriage  was  not  the 
fashion.  And  I  do  not  think  it  was  at  all  the  loss  of  him 
that  Josephine  minded,  but  the  loss  of  her  seat  on  his 
throne.  She  did  not  do  badly:  he  secured  to  her  her 
title  of  Empress  and  £100,000  a  year  pin-money,  with  a 
splendid  palace. 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother       205 

The  French  (all  except  the  Imperial  family,  who  had 
always  detested  her)  disliked  the  divorce,  because  they 
have  always  hated  Austria,  and  the  new  Empress,  Marie 
Louise,  was  niece  of  Marie  Antoinette:  also  because 
they  all  thought  Josephine  was  the  Emperor's  porte- 
bonheur  or  mascot,  as  we  call  it  —  a  word  never  used 
by  the  French.  And  certainly  Marie  Louise  was  as 
void  of  ''charm"  as  Josephine  was  full  of  it. 

This  afternoon  I  went  for  a  stroll  in  the  Little  Trianon 
where  it  was  cool  and  shady;  I  have  had  much  less  time 
lately  for  these  walks,  but  going  less  often  makes  them 
all  the  fresher,  as  each  time  one  sees  changes  in  trees, 
flowers,  and  shrubs.  There  were  hardly  any  people 
there,  and  it  was  very  quiet  and  peaceful.  The  lilacs, 
azaleas,  rhododendrons  all  out  in  blossom;  the  swans  on 
the  lakes  have  all  got  a  couple  of  little  swanlets,  white  as 
yet,  to  grow  into  ugly  grey  cygnets  later  on. 

The  birds,  which  used  to  be  all  singing  when  I  came, 
keep  quiet  now,  busied  about  household  matters;  like 
other  matrons,  they  lay  aside  their  youthful  accomplish- 
ments when  they  have  a  nursery  to  think  of. 

I  saw  some  very  small  fly-catchers  tackling  very  large 
butterflies. 

With  best  love  to  Christie  and  Alice. 

Thursday  Evening,  June  17,  191 5 

I  AM  only  beginning  this  letter  now,  because  F.  is  in 
the  room,  at  present  very  quiet  (arranging  medals  I  have 
given  him  to  give  away  again),  but  how  long  he  will  remain 
quiet  I  do  not  know!  If  I  told  him  to  stay  quiet  he 
would  be  as  obedient  as  a  little  dog.  But  I  do  not  want 
to  try  his  patience  too  far. 

I  must  explain  that  we  have  very  jew  patients,  and  so 
I  am  enjoying  a  sort  of  short  holiday. 

F,  came  to  luncheon,  and  afterwards  we  drove  —  a 
most  charming  drive  —  to  Marly,   St.   Germain,   Main- 


2o6       John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

tenon,  etc.  I  cannot  say  how  much  I  enjoyed  it,  or  how 
much  good  it  did  me.  It  "changed  my  mind,"  and  it  is 
always  a  dehght  to  me  to  find  myself  in  the  real  country. 
Versailles  is  charming,  and  the  parks  glorious,  but  it  is 
far  from  being  country. 

We  drove  first  through  a  part  of  the  Versailles  park, 
then  got  at  once  into  real  but  very  richly  cultivated 
country,  with  a  few  charming,  old-fashioned  villages. 
Then  by  the  very  pretty,  rustic,  and  richly-wooded 
estate  of  Maintenon,  bought  by  the  "Widow  Scarron," 
which  (being  an  old  feudal  property)  gave  her  the  title 
of  Marquise  —  the  only  one  she  ever  held.  For,  being 
the  King's  wife,  she  would  accept  no  title  but  that  of 
Queen  from  him,  and  that  one  he  swore  to  the  Arch- 
bishop of  Paris,  on  the  night  of  his  marriage,  never  to 
accord  to  her. 

Maintenon  is  very  calm  and  sweet,  and  I  wonder  if 
the  poor  lady,  during  her  thirty-two  years  of  unqueened 
wifehood  to  the  most  selfish  old  man  on  earth,  ever  wished 
she  were  simply  Marquise  de  Maintenon  and  nothing 
more. 

Then  we  got  into  the  Marly  forest,  and  soon  reached 
Marly  village.  The  chateau  and  wonderful  gardens 
built  and  laid  out  by  Louis  XIV  are  all  gone.  But  it  is 
still  a  fascinating  place,  with  quaint,  but  lively  old 
streets  winding  down  very  steep  hills,  with  marvellous 
views  of  the  wide  champagne-country,  like  a  wide  sea. 

Then  we  came  to  St.  Germain,  a  sort  of  ancient 
Windsor,  all  clustered  round  the  splendid  chateau,  much 
older  of  course  than  the  chateau  here,  dating  in  fact 
from  Francois  I:  one  side  right  on  the  town,  the  other 
on  the  park  with  immense  views.  ...  In  the  church 
(of  the  town,  just  opposite  the  castle,  not  the  castle 
chapel)  I  visited  the  original  tomb  of  James  II,  who  died 
in  the  chateau.  Afterwards  his  body  was  removed  to 
the  chapel  of  the  Irish  College  in  Paris. 

Then  we  drove  home  by  another  road,  by  the  Seine, 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother       207 

very  pretty,  but  less  country  and  empty  than  the  way 
we  went  by.     So  home  here  to  tea. 

I  should  never  have  been  happy  without  seeing  St. 
Germain,  and  it  is  hard  to  get  at  from  here  by  train. 
So  I  saw  it  very  pleasantly,  in  a  comfortable  motor,  and 
on  a  lovely  day  of  sun  and  breeze. 

You  know  that  Louis  XIII  and  Louis  XIV  had  always 
made  St.  Germain  their  country-house,  till  the  latter 
built  Versailles;  he  never  went  back  there,  and  gave  it 
to  the  English  royal  family  with  a  very  noble  pension 
sufficient  to  enable  them  to  maintain  their  court  there. 
Louis  XIV  never  neglected  them,  but  treated  them 
always  with  affectionate  attention  and  respect,  never 
during  all  those  years  omitting  to  go  and  visit  them 
twice  each  week.  I  am  no  fervent  admirer  of  the  Roi 
Soleil,  but  he  was  really  a  gentleman  in  his  treatment  of 
his  brother  king  in  adversity. 

Well,  my  dear,  there  is  no  more  to  tell  you. 

It  has  been  a  pleasant,  happy  day;  but  very  simple 
and  quiet. 

I  wished  that  I  had  a  camera,  there  were  so  many 
picturesque  groups  of  French  soldiers  along  the  road, 
such  as  no  one  ever  dreams  of  photographing. 

Ah,  dear!  You  ask  me  when  I  shall  come  home.'' 
Perhaps  you  think,  sometimes,  that  I  am  so  comfortable 
here  that  I  do  not  m^uch  mind  how  long  I  may  have  to 
stop.  But  the  truth  is,  I  dare  scarcely  think  of  the  day 
of  release,  and  the  real  going  home,  for  the  home-sickness 
it  gives  me.  .  .  .  Yes,  it  is  funny  your  having  to  receive 
your  news  of  Winterbourne  village  from  France.   .   .   . 

7  P.M.,  June  18,  191 5 

I  CAME  in  a  couple  of  hours  ago  and  found  a  letter 
from  Madame  Gorsse,  the  poor  mother  of  the  young 
soldier  I  told  you  of.  I  only  met  him  once,  but  spent 
long  hours  with  him,  and  persuaded  him  to  go  to  con- 


2o8       John  Ayscough^s  Letters  to  his  Mother 

fession.  Neither  she  nor  I  had  any  news  of  him  since 
May  8th,  and  I  felt  sure  he  was  killed:  she  hoped  he 
might  only  be  wounded,  or  a  prisoner.  Now  she  sends 
me  his  last  letter,  written  as  he  was  dying,  and  entrusted 
to  a  comrade.  It  is  terribly  pathetic:  but  the  lad  had 
his  senses  to  the  end,  and  wrote  in  full  consciousness  of 
his  approaching  death:  quite  a  long  letter,  full  of  tender- 
ness and  love,  and  thought  for  her.  Is  it  not  touching 
and  wonderful  that  I,  a  stranger  and  foreigner  who  never 
saw  her,  should  be  brought  thus  to  share  in  her  grief, 
and  be  made  by  her  a  partner  in  it?  Her  own  letter  is 
quite  heart-broken,  and  to  answer  it  has  been  a  terrible 
trial:  I  had  to  answer  at  once  or  I  could  not  have  done  it 
at  all.  Poor  woman,  she  has  one  consolation  that  comes 
of  her  own  charity,  which  never  fails  to  bring  us  help 
.  .  .  poor  widow  as  she  was,  she  adopted  a  little  orphan 
girl,  and  now  she  says  the  tenderness  and  love  of  this 
girl  is  beyond  all  price.  Now,  dear,  I  will  talk  of  things 
not  sad,  but  I  had  to  tell  you;  I  know  your  prayers  will 
go  up  to  Our  Lord  for  this  desolate  widow. 

When  I  came  in  it  was  from  visiting  old' General  de 
Chalain,  who  lives  far  away  at  the  other  end  of  Versailles. 
I  had  owed  him  a  visit  a  long  while.  He  was  in,  and  kept 
me  waiting  while  he  tidied  up.  So  I  studied  the  drawing- 
room.  There  are  plenty  of  good  old  pictures,  some 
good  miniatures,  a  few  bits  of  fine  and  beautiful  old 
furniture,  but  the  whole  room  a  howhng  wilderness! 
Very  few  French  people  understand  how  to  make  a  room 
look  human;  they  have  hardly  any  taste  that  way, 
and  often  they  do  not  inhabit  their  best  rooms. 

He  is  a  good  old  fellow,  very  pious  and  courteous, 
and  I  like  him.  The  ladies  never  show  .  .  .  his  sons 
are  at  the  front,  and  seem  to  have  as  many  legs  as  centi- 
pedes to  judge  by  the  number  he  reports  them  as  having 
recently  lost  each  time  I  see  him.  Also  he  has  tons  of 
nephews  who  get  killed  repeatedly  —  again  to  judge  by 
the  way  he  represents  half  a  dozen  as  having  been  killed 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother       209 

since  my  last  visit.  But  he  seems  quite  as  much  upset, 
and  more,  by  the  bursting  of  a  water-pipe  in  the  hall 
''yesterday";  it  had  burst  "the  day  before  yesterday" 
when  last  I  was  there. 

The  aviator  Warneforde,  who  destroyed  the  German 
Zeppelin  the  other  day,  and  got  the  V.  C.  direct  from  the 
King,  was  killed  here  last  night  while  giving  a  display  of 
aviation.     They  say  he  was  very  careless, 

I  got  your  letter  of  Tuesday  this  morning,  and  it  is 
always  a  delight  to  me  to  get  any  of  them. 

I  hope  the  cooler  weather  we  are  having  has  visited 
you,  too.  I  am  quite  warmly  clad  this  evening,  and  do 
not  find  it  a  bit  too  hot. 

My  room  is  full  of  roses,  and  so  is  the  garden;  the 
soldiers'  red  "pantalons"  show  up  among  the  bushes,  as 
they  work,  like  gigantic  masses  of  bloom!  They  are 
very  good  workers,  and  seem  to  enjoy  it:  I  wonder  what 
they  think  of  all  the  while?  Sometimes  I  ask,  and  they 
say,  ^' A  la  mort  de  Louis  Seize,"  which  is  the  French 
phrase  for  "I'm  not  thinking  of  anything  much." 

As  to  my  coming  on  leave  I  doubt  if  I  could  get  it,  and 
should  (if  I  did)  have  to  regularly  give  up  this  post  first 
and  wait  till  my  "relief"  arrived.  At  the  end  of  leave 
I  should  probably  be  sent  back  to  the  front,  which  I 
should  like  and  you  wouldn't! 

I  am  glad  I  gave  you  some  new  lights  on  the  Empress 
Josephine:  no  one  who  has  read  his  letters  can  doubt 
that  her  husband  adored  her  —  till  he  found  out.  He 
never  loved  anyone  else,  though  he  was  always  a  most 
devoted,  respectful  son:  and  old  Madame  Mere,  ex- 
cellent as  she  was,  was  as  hard  as  a  tenpenny  nail,  a 
mine  of  sense,  and  a  good  woman,  but  not  of  the  sort 
who  care  to  be  loved.  Napoleon  to  the  end  stood  be- 
tween Josephine  and  his  family,  who  all  detested  her  — 
I  mean,  especially,  the  women.  She  had  gracious  and 
dignified  manners,  whith  they  could  never  learn:  and 
they  were  always  indignant  at  having  to  carry  her  train, 


2IO       John  Aysco'Uglfs  Letters  to  his  Mother 

on  state  occasions,  etc.  At  her  coronation,  Pauline 
tried,  in  carrying  it,  to  trip  her  up,  and  nearly  succeeded! 

I  have  some  natural  history  notes  to  send,  from  another 
Country  Life,  but  this  letter  is  too  fat  for  them.  /  am 
not  fat  at  all,  as  thin  as  an  eel:  which  enables  me  to 
skip  about  quicker.  Lady  Austin-Lee  calls  me  the  Boy 
Scout. 

The  French  have  a  passion  now  for  adopting  parts  of 
our  uniform,  and  I  live  in  terror  of  F.  discarding  his 
lovely  pale,  soft  grey-blue  uniform,  for  bilious,  mustardy 
khaki,  which  will  make  him  quite  ghastly,  with  his 
colourless  face. 

I  bought  some  brilliantine  to  soften  my  dry  and 
rather  stiff  hair,  but  it  made  it  canary  colour,  so  I  have 
had  to  present  it  to  my  servant:  it  took  furious  washings 
to  get  my  hair  white  again.  The  other  brilhantine  they 
offered  me  was  a  Chartreuse-green,  which  I  thought 
would  be  worse,  though  patriotic. 

The  man  who  cuts  my  hair  adores  the  English,  and 
will  try  to  talk  it:  all  he  can  say  is  '"Ow  you  do?  Good- 
night."' 

The  Editor  who  used  to  lodge  here  calls  repeatedly 
to  ask  Madame  Beranek  to  give  him  three  pieces  of 
sugar:  it  must  be  a  good  deal  of  trouble,  as  he  lives  two 
miles  away;  but  he  has  a  sweet  tooth  and  his  wife  allows 
him  no  pocket-money. 

One  of  F.'s  stories  is  as  follows:  long  after  his  mother's 
death  he  demanded  of  his  widower  father  a  little  brother 
to  play  with.  "I  don't  keep  them:  it  is  Maman  Rose" 
(the  village  sage-femme).  "Where  does  she  get  them.^" 
"Out  of  pumpkins." 

So  Master  F.  trots  off  down  the  village,  but  Maman 
Rose  was  out — conveying  a  pumpkin  to  some  matron,  no 
doubt.  However  her  cottage  was  open,  and  sure  enough, 
in  her  garden  were  lots  of  pumpkins,  and  F.  brought 
a  knife  from  the  cottage  and  cut  them  all  open.  When 
he  got  home,  deeply  disappointed,  he  asked  Baron  C: 


John  AyscougJjs  Letters  to  his  Mother       211 

"Must  they  be  ripe?" 

"Must  what  be  ripe?" 

"The  pumpkins.  I  cut  them  all  open,  but  there  was 
no  little  brother  in  any  of  them." 

It  is  ever  so  late  and  I  must  go  to  bed.  So  good-night 
and  God  bless  you. 

Saturday  Night,  June  19,  191 5 

Your  letter  of  Thursday  morning  was  in  my  hands  at 
breakfast  this  morning,  Saturday,  only  forty-eight  hours 
after  you  were  writing  it.  Excellent,  eh  ?  My  letters 
are  mostly  written  at  night,  and  do  not  leave  Versailles 
till  the  following  night,  so  they  must  always  seem  longer 
on  the  way. 

I  knew  you  would  be  grieved  to  hear  of  my  little 
French  soldier's  death,  now,  alas,  placed  beyond  all 
doubt.  He  also  is  Fran9ois,  like  myself.  ...  I  myself 
have  no  misgivings  as  to  the  lot  of  either  of  those  martyr- 
lads  for  duty  and  for  country.  They  are  with  the 
Martyrs'  King  and  tender  Master. 

F,  came  in  this  afternoon  and  stayed  to  dinner  (so  I 
ate  about  three  times  what  I  do  alone).  He  was  very 
interesting;  there  is  a  harmonium  in  this  room,  and  he 
played  upon  it  old  country  songs  of  his  far-away  province 
—  Franche-Comte  —  and  crooned  the  old  words  of 
them:  they  are  wonderfully  tender,  sweet  and  pathetic, 
with  a  perfect,  simple  pathos.  I  beg  him  to  make  a 
collection  of  them,  music,  words  and  all.  The  love 
songs  of  these  peasants  are  as  pure  and  white  as  the 
songs  of  little  children:  and  the  loveliest  of  all  was  a 
love-song  of  two  old  folks,  grandparents,  crooned  to  each 
other  by  the  winter  fire  of  the  home  whence  children  and 
grand-children  have  gone  forth  to  the  battle-field,  to  the 
altar,  or  to  the  church-yard  rest.  The  highest  heights 
of  pathos  are  touched  in  words  the  simplest  and  most 
homely:  no  sentiment,  only  the  everlasting  realities  of 
human  life. 


212       John  AyscougFs  Letters  to  his  Mother 

Do  not  think  I  have  any  melancholy  fears  or  fore- 
bodings. I  have  none.  I  am  sure  that  Our  Lord  will 
give  us  back  to  each  other,  and  that  we  shall  have  long 
happy  days  together  soon.  ...  I  am  so  glad  that  my 
little  account  of  the  Duchess  of  Bassano's  many  interest- 
ing possessions  interested  you,  too.  You  will  never 
grow  old,  for  you  will  never  lose  your  interest  in  the 
thousand  things  that  make  life  so  varied:  whether  they 
be  the  fringes  on  the  lovely  robe  of  spring  and  summer, 
winter  and  autumn,  or  the  little  links  that  make  up  the 
inner  chain  of  history. 

Is  it  not  sickening  to  see  the  hypocrisy  of  the  German 
Emperor,  pretending  to  be  hurt  in  his  crooked  soul  at 
the  deaths  of  the  innocent  women  and  children  at  Karls- 
ruhe! God  knows  I  pity  them:  but  he!  He,  who  has 
showered  honours  and  decorations  on  men  for  doing 
nothing  else  but  send  to  their  death  innocent  women, 
and  babies,  and  harmless  village-folk,  and  helpless 
travellers!  I  knew  he  was  a  cad  and  a  butcher,  but  I 
did  not  think  he  was  a  smug  and  barefaced  hypo- 
crite. .  .  . 

Little  Italy  is  doing  finely,  and  I  am  delighted:  her 
spirit  is  as  good  as  anyone's  and  brings  new  and  eager 
blood  into  our  side. 

I  am  oflF  to  bed:  after  the  immense  budget  I  sent  you 
to-day,  you  can  do  with  a  shorter  letter  to-night. 

Best  love  to  Christie  and  Alice. 

Sunday  Evening,  8  p.m.,  June  20,  191 5 

Here  I  am  writing  at  my  open  window  (there  are  two); 
it  has  been  a  delightful  day,  fresh,  cool  and  vigorous 
though  sunny  and  clear. 

After  luncheon  F,  and  I  went  for  another  little  excur- 
sion, and  this  time  we  took  his  godmother  with  us.  It 
was  not  a  very  distant  one,  and  did  not  take  long  in 
the  motor,  to  Malmaison,  the  Empress  Josephine's  villa; 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother       213 

it  really  is  not  a  palace  in  any  sense,  merely  a  good-sized 
country  house.  .  .  .  The  rooms  are  not  by  any  means 
large,  but  look  comfortable,  and  the  furniture  is  excellent: 
In  the  hall  is  the  miserable  little  camp-bed  that  Napo- 
leon I  used  at  St.  Helena,  rather  a  sad  relic:  and  a  large 
picture  of  his  death  there,  over  it:  on  the  other  side  of 
the  hall  is  one  of  his  thrones  —  a  sharp  contrast.  I 
need  not  remind  you  that  it  was  at  Malmaison  that 
Josephine  received,  from  the  mouth  of  her  son  Eugene, 
the  news  that  the  divorce  was  really  decided  upon. 
One  of  the  cards  I  send  shows  a  facsimile  of  her  letter 
"accepting"  the  divorce  —  there  was  a  terrible  scene 
first,  before  she  wrote  it. 

I  was  lucky  enough  to  find  at  Malmaison  cards  illustrat- 
ing two  of  the  Duchess  of  Bassano's  pictures,  i.e.,  the 
portrait  of  the  King  of  Rome,  by  Sir  Thomas  Lawrence, 
and  the  portrait  of  his  father  (as  First  Consul)  begun  by 
David. 

The  little  boy  is  utterly  charming.  Some  other 
Bonaparte  portraits  pretty  well  complete  the  family! 
The  one  of  Napoleon  III  is  better  than  the  only  one  I 
could  find  for  you  here  at  Versailles.  Also  I  found  there 
a  card  of  Delaroche's  superb  portrait  of  Napoleon  I, 

There  are  many  portraits  at  Malmaison  of  Josephine 
and  of  the  Emperor,  and  busts,  too.  The  odd  thing  is 
that  some  of  the  busts  of  the  Empress  are  like  Queen 
Mary.  .  .  . 

There  are  some  beautiful  bits  of  tapestry,  not  large: 
and  plenty  of  Aubusson  tapestry  covering  furniture  — 
it  is  priceless,  and  very  delicate  and  lovely,  but  not 
tapestry  at  all  in  the  strict  sense,  because  it  is  needle- 
work, and  true  tapestry  is  woven  on  the  loom,  e.g.  that 
of  Arras,  Gobelins,  etc.  Josephine's  harp  is  still  there, 
a  very  beautiful  one:  her  work-table,  her  card-table, 
her  broidery-frame  (very  splendid  and  exquisite  work- 
manship). Napoleon's  study,  writing-table,  etc. 

It  was  at  Malmaison  that  the  Bonapartes  used  to  be 


214       John  AyscougFs  Letters  to  his  Mother 

all  together  '' en  famille"  even  after  the  Empire  had  been 
proclaimed.  (Josephine  bought  the  little  estate  and 
built  the  house  in  1798;  it  had  been  a  small  Cluniac 
Abbey.) 

Of  course  it  was  much  too  small  for  the  Bonaparte 
crowd  to  sleep  there:  but  even  when  the  Imperial  Court 
was  at  the  Tuileries  (after  he  had  changed  the  Con- 
sulate into  the  Empire),  he  encouraged  Josephine  to  dine 
there  almost  every  day  in  the  week  —  every  day  when 
there  was  not  a  state  dinner  or  a  state  reception  at  the 
Tuileries)  and  he  came  himself  and  expected  all  the 
brothers,  sisters,  brothers-in-law,  and  sisters-in-law  to 
dine  there,  too.  There  v/ere  plenty  of  bickerings,  and 
some  of  the  sisters  only  went  because  they  durst  not 
stay  away.  It  was  there  that  they  all  fell  to  squabbling 
about  the  kingdoms  they  wanted,  and  Napoleon  said, 
"To  hear  you,  one  would  suppose  it  was  a  question  of 
dividing  the  inheritance  of  the  late  King  our  father." 

It  is  odd  to  stand  in  those  rooms  and  picture  it  all: 
to  remember  how  often  they  echoed  the  shrill  squabbles 
of  Elise  and  Pauline  and  Caroline,  the  stern  voice  of  the 
Emperor  reducing  them  all  to  reason  and  obedience. 
After  Waterloo  he  came  back  for  one  last  look  at  the 
place:  Josephine  was  dead  —  had  died  there  on  May 
29th  in  the  year  before  Waterloo  —  Marie  Louise  had 
deserted  his  fallen  fortunes,  his  son  was  taken  from  him, 
and  St.  Helena  was  waiting  for  him.  Everything  was 
gone:  only  the  memories  remained.  We  stood  to-day 
in  the  shadowed  alleys  where  he  stood,  looking  his  last 
good-byes. 

It  has  none  of  the  tragic  interest,  as  it  has  none  of  the 
royal  grandeur  of  Versailles  and  the  Trianons:  but  it  is 
more  homely,  and  one  can  see  still  how  it  was  built,  not 
by  an  Empress  but  by  Citizen  Bonaparte's  wife,  to  be 
cheerful  and  comfortable  in  —  "out  of  her  own  money." 

After  the  divorce  the  Empress  lived  there  very  quietly. 


John  ^y SCO  ugh' s  Letters  to  his  Mother       215 

and  pleased  everyone  by  her  simple  acceptance  of  her 
fallen  state.  She  adored  flowers  and  rare  plants  and 
spent  her  hours  in  gardening.  She  was  there  when  the 
Allies  entered  Paris  the  first  time,  to  stuff  old  Louis 
XVIII's  fat  figure  back  on  the  throne  of  the  Bourbons, 
and  it  was  there  that  the  Russian  Emperor  Alexander 
insisted  on  paying  his  respects  to  her,  to  the  annoyance 
of  some  of  his  meaner  brother-sovereigns.  When  the 
Allies  came  again,  after  Waterloo,  she  was  dead. 

It  is  veiy  odd,  the  contrast  between  the  Little  Trianon 
and  Malmaison:  the  former  so  lovely  and  so  haunted 
by  the  terrible  pathos  of  Marie  Antoinette's  story:  the 
latter  very  charming  and  full  of  singular  interest,  but 
somehow  quite  missing  all  pathos.  Of  course  Josephine 
was  only  divorced,  and  never  had  her  selfish  head  cut 
off,  she  never  had  any  martyr-days,  and  she  had  never 
had  half  an  ounce  of  religion.  Still,  I  would  not  have 
missed  seeing  Malmaison  for  anything  —  if  only  to  make 
me  admire  and  love  the  Trianons  more.  I  wonder  if  my 
Versailles  days  are  drawing  to  an  end?  The  rumours  of 
our  all  moving  to  Calais  are  revived,  and  perhaps  that  is 
the  explanation  of  the  emptying  of  our  hospital.  I 
should  like  Calais,  as  being  so  near  England.  However, 
we  know  nothing. 

Well,  it  is  bed-time  again  (dinner  has  come  in  between 
the  beginning  and  the  ending  of  this  letter). 

There  was  no  letter  from  you   to-day,  only  one   from 

in  which  he  says  you  gave  him  an  "albumen.".  .  . 

I  hope  it  doesn't  mean  you  have  taken  to  shying  rotten 
eggs  at  him,  as  if  he  were  an  old-fashioned  Election.  He 
has  "halso  'ad  some  anxusty  on  accounce  of  his  mother 
who  'as  not  been  well."  You,  however,  are,  he  says, 
"quiet  well  and  Boney  and  the  garden  all  wright  thoghu 
sufFreign  from  droughts. "  I  really  must  stop  or  I  shall 
be  too  sleepy  to  undress  and  my  spelling  will  go  the 
way  of 's.     So  good  night : 


2i6       John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 


June  21,  191 5 

For  some  reason  best  known  to  itself  our  post  only 
arrived  late  this  evening,  instead  of  at  7  a.m.  Tuesday. 

That  is  all  I  wrote  last  night!  Then  I  was  called  to 
dinner.  Afterwards  I  tried  to  go  on,  but  simply  could 
not,  I  was  so  sleepy.     So  I  gave  it  up  as  a  bad  job. 

All  day  yesterday  I  was  sleepy,  and  tired  too.  The 
weather,  so  fresh  and  delightful  on  Sunday,  had  turned 
electric,  burning,  close,  heavy  and  stifling:  and  so  it  is 
going  to  be  to-day.  To-day  the  insupportable  feeling 
of  fatigue  has  come  back,  but  as  it  comes  with  the  weather 
so  it  will  go  with  it,  and  we  are  plainly  brewing  up  for  a 
thunder-storm. 

F.  spent  all  yesterday  with  me:  very  sweet,  very  quiet, 
and  quite  cheerful,  though  grave;  but  alas,  alas,  I  fear 
his  young  life  will  be  asked  of  him.  The  wounds  even 
externally  are  not  all  healed  yet;  but  heart,  lungs,  and 
other  organs  are  injured  internally y  and  I  think  the 
doctors  do  not  believe  they  can  be  cured.  He  is  in  no 
present  danger,  but  I  fear  his  life  will  be  very,  very 
short;  we  barely  talk  of  it,  but  we  must  both  of  us  be 
thinking  of  it.  To-day  he  has  gone  back  to  hospital: 
not  to  Paris,  but  to  the  French  Garrison  Hospital  here, 
and  only  for  ten  days  or  so,  when  he  hopes  to  get  a  "con- 
valescence" of  a  month,  in  which  case  Mme.  M.  would 
take  him  away  to  the  seaside. 

I  got  two  letters  from  you  this  morning,  Friday's  and 
Saturday's,  both  short,  but  both  quite  cheery  and  satis- 
factory. ...  I  wonder  if  we  are  going  to  shift  to  near 
Calais!  No  one  knows,  though  we  all  rather  suspect  it. 
I  should  like  the  old  Dieppe  feeling  that  it  was  only  a 
step  across  the  water  to  you:  and  of  course  Calais  is  the 
nearest  point  in  France  to  England,  really  in  sight. 

You  needn't  be  afraid  of  my  going  up  in  an  aeroplane; 
it  is  strictly  forbidden  to  French  pilots  to  take  up  a 


John  Ayscough' s  Letters  to  his  Mother       217 

passenger,  and  we  have  no  English  machines  in  these 
regions. 

I  have  not  been  to  Paris  since  F.  left  it,  and  except  to 
go  and  pay  digestive  visits  to  the  Duchess  of  Bassano  and 
Lady  A.-L.:  I  don't  see  what's  to  take  me  there.  So  I 
am  not  likely  to  be  in  at  the  Zeppelin  visit  from  Germany. 

I  must  sally  forth  to  the  hospital. 

"June  22,  191 5 

Your  letter  arrived  this  morning,  begun  when  Alice 
had  just  arrived.  I  am  so  glad  she  is  back  with  you, 
and  I  am  sure  her  being  there  for  a  bit  will  cheer  you 
both  up,  and  do  you  good,  like  a  little  change  of  air. 

Strawberries  have  been  going  on  here  a  long  time, 
but  I  did  not  tell  you  (i)  because  you  like  them  and  I 
did  not  want  to  make  you  envious;  (2)  because  I  don't, 
and  I  have  hardly  touched  any. 

Yesterday  F,  met  me  at  the  Pont  de  I'Alma  station 
and  we  went  on  directly  to  the  Duchess  of  Bassano's. 
In  the  train  I  gave  him  your  gift,  with  which  he  was 
delighted,  and  your  letter,  which  I  had  to  translate  .  .  . 
the  passages  about  myself  were  a  trial  to  my  modesty, 
but  I  did  not  mince  them,  as  I  hate  mince. 

By  the  way  I  had  nothing  on  earth  to  do  with  his 
conversion,  and  he  was  a  Catholic  before  he  knew  of  my 
existence.  The  Duchess  and  her  unmarried  daughter, 
Mademoiselle  de  Bassano  —  the  one  who  is  lady-in- 
waiting  to  Princess  Napoleon  —  made  up  our  party  of 
four.     I  like  them  both.   .  .   . 

The  house  is  very  nice,  and  full  of  interesting  things: 
especially  of  splendid  miniatures  —  a  wonderfully  in- 
teresting and  precious  group  of  them,  mounted  together, 
given  to  the  first  Duke  of  Bassano,  all  the  potentates  of 
that  time  and  all  the  Bonapartes,  male  and  female: 
two  of  Jerome,  very  fine,  and  also  very  handsome. 

Besides  there  is  an  extremely  interesting  portrait, 
merely  begun  (not  a  miniature,  a  large  portrait  in  oils), 


21 8       John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

of  Napoleon  I  by  David,  when  Napoleon  was  First 
Consul,  young  and  beautiful,  for  which  he  only  sat  ten 
minutes!  all  the  figure  left  unpainted.  Besides,  a  most 
beautiful  original  portrait  in  oils  of  the  little  King  of 
Rome,  as  a  child  of  five  or  six;  this  by  Sir  Thomas 
Lawrence. 

Then  splendid  full  lengths  in  oils  of  the  first  Duke  and 
Duchess  of  Bassano;  she  very  beautiful,  but  with  a 
queer  suggestion  of  Josephine,  who  never  was  beautiful. 
Then  splendid  full-lengths  of  the  Duke  and  Duchess 
who  were  Maitre  du  Palais  and  Grande  Maitresse  du 
Palais,  to  Napoleon  III  and  the  Empress  Eugenie  .  .  . 
and  tons  of  other  interesting  things:  exquisite  china  — 
a  glorious  dinner  service  of  Sevres  made  for  the  first 
Duke  to  Napoleon's  order,  and  his  gift  to  him.  It  was 
a  very  pleasant  as  well  as  a  very  interesting  visit.  To-day 
has  been  much  cooler,  because  there  is  a  fussy  wind  that 
blows  all  my  papers  about  the  room.  .  .  .  Again  this 
afternoon  I  went  for  a  stroll  in  the  Little  Trianon:  but 
crowds  of  Sunday  folk,  and  I  did  not  stay  long. 

Poor  dear  McCurry's  mother  has  shown  her  gratitude 
for  my  affection  toward  her  poor  lad  by  making  and 
sending  me  two  large  cakes!  I  could  not  help  smiling 
as  I  undid  the  parcel,  but  it  was  a  very  wistful  smile: 
poor,  poor  lady  .  .  .  oddly  enough  the  queer  gift  brought 
him  specially  to  my  m.emory,  for  I  remember  so  well 
how  he  used  to  receive  her  cakes,  up  at  the  front,  and 
would  always  bring  the  first  piece  to  me.  ...  I  must 
write  to  her,  which  I  will  do  as  soon  as  I  have  dined, 
which  I  am  just  going  to  do. 

Ah  dear!  I  have  another  poor  mother  to  console  — 
one  day,  the  first  day  I  went  to  Paris,  two  months  ago 
nearly,  I  made  friends  with  a  young  chasseur,  who  told 
me  he  was  leaving  next  day  for  the  front.  He  told  me 
he  had  been  wild,  and  I  asked  him  if  he  would  not  go  to 
confession  before  starting.  He  said  "No,"  but  he  wrote 
from  the  front  and  said,  "You,  dear  friend  of  a  spring 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother       219 

afternoon,  will  be  glad  to  know  I  have  done  what  you 
asked.  I  have  been  to  confession  and  Holy  Communion, 
and  persuaded  others  to  do  so.  .  .  ."  He  had  told  me 
all  about  his  home  life:  he  lived  alone  at  home  with  his 
widowed  mother,  who  has  no  other  boy  or  girl,  and  in 
spite  of  his  wildness  was  tender  and  loving  to  her. 

He  begged  me  to  send  him  crucifixes  and  medals, 
which  I  did  —  but  alas,  they  never  reached  him.  They 
arrived  after  he  was  killed.  Oh,  my  dear,  you  cannot 
think  how  it  hurt  me,  though  we  only  met  that  once. 
And  his  poor  mother  writes  to  me  so  pathetically  of  the 
great  love  the  lad  had  for  his  English  friend  seen  that 
once.  I  had  sent  him  little  things,  a  few  shirts,  socks, 
chocolates,  cigarettes,  tinned  potted  meats,  etc.,  as  I  do 
to  many  others. 

It  is  a  perfect  anguish  to  me  to  write  to  these  mothers, 
but  it  would  be  a  selfishness  beyond  my  depth  not  to. 

Pray  for  her. 

Wednesday y  June  23,  191 5 

Your  letter  written  on   Sunday  arrived   to-day,   also 

one  from  enquiring  about  a  man  who  was  in  our 

hospital  for  twenty-four  hours  five  weeks  ago.  For- 
tunately I  could  trace  him,  and  found  out  he  had  un- 
common little  the  matter  with  him.  However,  he 
seems  to  have  frightened  his  wife  by  tragic  ideas  of  gas 
poisoning.  His  real  disorder  was  a  swelling  on  a  region 
that  I  would,  if  Alice  were  a  Frenchwoman,  plainly 
explain,  and  neither  she  nor  I  would  be  a  penny  the 
worse;  but  as  she  is  English,  or,  rather,  Irish,  I  know 
she  would  drop  dead  if  I  were  to  mention  a  part  of  the 
human  frame  that  the  Almighty  had  the  indiscretion  to 

create:   and  I  have  prudently  mentioned  that  the  sw^eUing 

<'  1       1  " 
was     local. 

We  have  just  had  the  most  helter-skelter  rain-storm 

I  ever  saw;  tons  of  rain  in  a  few  minutes:   and  last  even- 


220       John  AyscougKs  Letters  to  his  Mother 

ing  it  began  to  rain  at  six  and  went  on  all  night  —  still, 
it  is  as  stuffy  and  muggy  as  ever. 

I  bought  a  tonic  to-day,  and  it  is  so  good  I  should  like 
to  be  lapping  it  up  all  the  while. 

You  and  I  will  never  agree  about  the  longest  day! 
I  hate  summer  and  am  always  glad  to  think  that  even 
the  first  step  towards  winter  has  been  taken.  I  suppose 
it  is  a  question  of  health,  and  I  am  worth  ten  times 
my  summer  value  in  winter. 

I  am  quite  curious  to  see  the  pocket  handkerchief- 
case  you  have  made  for  Lady  Austin-Lee:  I  will  go  in  to 
Paris  on  purpose  to  administer  it  to  her.  .   .   . 

This  is  a  frightful  letter,  but  the  truth  is  I  can  scarcely 
write;  I  am  so  heavy  and  sleepy. 

Saturday  Night,  June  26,  191 5 

I  AM  almost  quite  well  again!  The  day  has  been 
thoroughly  fresh  and  cool  (a  hot  sun,  of  course),  and 
perhaps  that  has  helped  a  good  deal.  Anyway  I  am 
practically  as  well  as  ever,  and  the  weakness  almost 
gone:  that  is  perhaps  partly  due  to  my  excellent  tonic. 
I  have  been  out  a  good  deal  to-day,  which  also  did  me 
good. 

F.  turned  up  about  eleven  and  we  went  off  to  the  Park; 
walked  up  to  the  chateau,  where  I  showed  F.  the  chapel, 
the  Queen's  apartments  (with  all  their  glorious  tapestries), 
the  Galerie  de  Glaces,  and  the  immense  Gaieties  de 
Batailles.  He  really  enjoyed  it  immensely,  though  he 
is  not  in  the  least  a  sight-seer  (like  me)  by  nature.  It  is 
always  rather  a  joke  with  the  French  that  the  English 
are  such  furious  sight-seers. 

We  have  heard  no  more  of  our  move,  and  having 
received  new  convoys  of  wounded  makes  it  less  likely. 

Excuse  a  brief,  and  very  dull  letter.  My  head  feels 
woolly  I 


John  AyscougFs  Letters  to  his  Mother       221 

Thursday  Eve7i{ng,  7  p.m.,  July  i,  191 5 

I  SEND  you  a  whole  bundle  of  cards.  When  I  was  at 
the  front  I  remember  describing  to  you  the  great  Castle 
of  Pierrefonds,  which  we  passed  on  a  blazing  day  of 
late  August  or  early  September:  and  I  have,  ever  since, 
been  trying  to  get  cards  of  it.  It  belongs  to  the  Empress 
Eugenie,  and  was  bought  for  her  by  Napoleon  III,  who 
restored  it,  for  it  was  quite  ruinous.  It  is  perhaps  the 
most  magnificent  of  all  the  ancient  feudal  castles  of 
France.  The  Empress,  when  she  travels,  always  calls 
herself  Comtesse  de  Pierrefonds,  just  as  old  Queen  Vic- 
toria's incognito  title  was  Countess  of  Balmoral.  I 
hope  you  will  admire  the  cards:  they  really  give  a  good 
idea  of  the  vast  and  imposing  character  of  the  castle, 
as  of  its  beauty;  they  only  fail  to  give  (on  account  of 
their  smallness)  the  idea  of  the  magnificent  situation, 
towering  up  above  the  town  and  above  a  billowy  forest- 
country. 

I  went  in  to  Paris  and  lunched  with  Lady  Austin-Lee 
and  Sir  Henry:  there  was  no  one  else,  and  Lady  A.-L. 
was  very  nice.  She  is  thoroughly  pleased  with  your 
gift,  and  praised  its  beauty  and  its  wonderful  workman- 
ship. 

Tell  Christie  that  Sir  H.'s  brother,  who  died  suddenly 
last  year,  was  for  many  years  Rector  of  Guernsey,  and 
I  am  sure  she  knew  him.  Sir  Henry  owns  a  little  island, 
called  Jethou,  that  I  remember  very  well,  just  opposite 
St.  Peter  Port  at  Guernsey.  And  he  remembers  well 
the  Maisonette  where  Christie  lived:  his  own  sisters 
lived  in  a  house  close  to  it. 

We  keep  getting  new  batches  of  wounded  in,  so  the 
talk  of  our  all  moving  oft'  to  Calais  has  died  out  again. 
Among  the  wounded  I  was  chatting  with  to-day  was  a 
young  Jew!  One  very  rarely  comes  across  Jews  in  the 
army,  and  as  there  is  no  Hebrew  chaplain  here  I  thought 
the  lad  might  Hke  to  be  talked  to,  and  so  he  did.     He 


222       John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

is  very  well  educated,  of  the  upper  middle-class,  his 
mother,  a  widow,  living  in  Hampstead:  his  name  Ett- 
linger.  I  asked  him  if  he  was  a  good  Jew,  and  he  said 
"No,  I'm  afraid  not:  but  my  mother  is."  He  has  only 
been  out  here  nine  weeks,  and  has  a  bullet  through  his 
thigh.  I  asked  him  what  he  dishked  most  in  the  trenches, 
and  he  said,  "The  flies.".  .  .     Can't  you  imagine  them.^ 

In  the  next  bed  was  a  Canadian,  one  of  my  own  chick- 
ens (rather  past  the  spring-chicken  stage,  being  forty- 
four  years  old).  After  giving  him  prayer-books,  rosaries, 
etc.,  he  asked  my  name  and  I  told  him.  "Oh,  I  know 
it  well,"  he  said,  "and  often  read  your  books.  You're 
John  Ayscough." 

While  I  was  out  to-day,  someone  called,  and  Madame 
Beranek  said  it  was  a  Mrs.  Ong-ding-dong.  I  fancied 
some  Chinese  lady  must  have  called,  but  when  I  found 
the  cards  they  were  those  of  a  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Huntington: 
some  relations,  I  suppose,  of  Constant  Huntington, 
the  American  publisher.  A  very  old  lady,  Mme.  Ber- 
anek says.  I  asked  if  the  lady  was  English  and  she 
said,  "Quite  the  contrary.     Entirely  American." 

I  showed  the  Duchess  of  Bassano  your  miniature,  and 
she  said  we  are  exactly  alike. 

I  think  I  must  go  to  bed.  This  is  an  uncommonly 
drivelhng  letter,  and  I  should  advise  you  to  read  it  if 
you  feel  unable  to  sleep;  it  ought  to  act  like  magic.  Every- 
one else  is  in  bed,  and  the  blameless  snores  of  M.  Beranek 
through  the  house  protest  against  the  use  of  lamp-oil 
at  this  late  hour. 

So  good  night,  and  God  bless  you  all. 

Saturday  Evening,  "July  3,  191 5 

I  WAS  talking  to  one  of  my  men  in  hospital,  and  the 
man  in  the  next  bed,  when  I  got  up  to  go  on  to  someone 
else,  said,  "Good  afternoon.  Father." 

"I  didn't  know  you  were  a  Catholic." 


John  Ayscoiigh's  Letters  to  his  Mother       223 

"Well,  I'm  not,  but  I  ought  to  be.  My  father  and 
mother  were:  but  they  died  and  I  was  brought  up  b}^ 
my  granny  in  Wales,  and  there  was  no  Catholic  church, 
and  I  went  to  a  Protestant  church  and  school." 

"The  first  recollections  I  have,"  said  I,  "are  of  Wales. 
I  went  there  at  about  two  years  old  and  left  it  when  I 
was  five  or  six.  Llangollen  was  the  name  of  the  little 
place  where  we  lived." 

"And  that  was  where  I  Hved." 

Wasn't  it  odd?  And  we  had  great  talks;  about  the 
Dee,  and  the  Barber's  Hill,  Dhinas  Bran  (sic.^)  the 
Eghosygs  (sic.^?),  Valle  Crucis  Abbey,  the  Chain  Bridge, 
etc.  But  what  seemed  to  me  most  odd,  was  he  knew 
quite  well  the  house  where  the  Stewarts  lived,  and  says 
that  two  Misses  Stewart  live  there  still:  our  old  friends 
Grace  and  Jessie,  I  suppose.  He  called  the  house  by  its 
name  (long  forgotten  by  me)  and  I  recognised  it  at  once, 
but  it  has  again  slipped  away  out  of  my  head :  I  will  ask 
him  again  to-morrow  and  write  it  down. 

I  had  another  chat  with  my  young  Jew,  and  asked  him 
what  they  gave  him  for  breakfast  —  the  usual  thing  is 
a  very  large  hunk  of  bread  and  butter  with  excellent 
bacon. 

"Oh,"  he  said,  laughing,  "I  have  got  uncommonly 
fond  of  bacon:  and  if  Moses  saw  our  clean-fed  English 
bacon  he  w^ouldn't  mind." 

I'm  afraid  he's  not  a  very  correct  Jev/,  for  he  says 
synagogue  bores  him  frightfully,  as  it  is  all  in  Hebrew, 
of  which  he  doesn't  understand  a  syllable. 

I'm  so  glad  you  got  out  in  the  bath-chair  and  enjoyed 
it:  I  tried  to  picture  the  plain  and  almost  failed:  I've 
seen  so  much  France  lately,  and  it  is  so  different.  But 
I  don't  care  for  France  a  bit,  much  as  I  love  the  French. 
I  love  England,  and  our  plain,  quite  apart  from  any 
affection  I  have  for  people  there.  Versailles  is  a  charming 
place,  but  I've  no  more  affection  for  it  than  the  first 
day  I  saw  it. 


224       John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

Of  course  "Orley  Farm,"  which  you  are  reading, 
belongs  only  to  Trollope's  second  or  third  group,  but  as 
a  novel  I  think  it  ranks  fairly  high  in  that  lower  grade. 

It  is  bed-time  and  when  I  go  early  to  bed  I  sleep; 
if  I  sit  up  late  I  lie  awake  for  hours. 

Give  my  best  love  to  Christie  and  Alice,  and  tell  them 
how  I  should  like  to  be  where  they  are. 

Monday,  July  5,  191 5 

Yesterday  I  had  to  attend  a  Kermesse  for  the  hos- 
pitals: it  was  at  Chaville,  a  few  miles  out  of  Versailles, 
in  a  pretty  place.  The  heat  was  amazing — one  felt  like  a 
hot-water  melon  in  a  cucumber-frame,  and  the  crowd 
didn't  make  it  any  cooler.  The  prices  were  all  exorbi- 
tant, just  as  in  an  English  bazaar,  whereas  at  Countess 
Missiessy's  Kermesse  they  were  most  moderate.  My 
soldier  servant  observed  grimly,  "  You  can't  open  your 
mouth  here  under  three  francs!"  He  is  rather  a  char- 
acter: if  I  scold  him  for  anything  he  always  has  some 
disease  or  pain  which  /  have  recently  had;  the  argument 
being,  of  course,  "Come!  I  pitied  you  when  you  had  it 
.  .  ,"  On  Saturday  he  walked  off  with  the  key  of  the 
chapel  in  the  hospital,  and  gave  me  a  lot  of  trouble 
sending  all  over  the  place  for  him.  I  began  to  "  wash 
his  head,"  and  he  said,  "Oh!  I  have  such  frightful  dys- 
entery, just  like  you  had  last  week." 

Yesterday  he  left  all  the  electric  Hght  burning  in  the 
chapel,  in  broad  daylight:  when  I  expostulated  he  said, 
"Oh!  I  have  such  dreadful  toothache  —  just  like  you 
had  two  months  ago." 

To  return  to  the  Kermesse;  Madame  JofFre,  wife  of 
the  Commander-in-chief  of  the  Allied  Armies,  was  there, 
treated  with  great  pomp:  she  was  sitting  close  to  me. 

There  was  a  concert,  alfresco,  and  some  very  good  things 
at  it.  Two  famous  actors  sang  and  recited;  and  another 
less  famous  professional  actor  sang  some  very  touching 


John  AyscougFs  Letters  to  his  Mother       225 

little  war  things  —  one  made  me  weep!  It  was  all  a  sort 
of  patter  song,  but  represented  a  letter  written  by  a 
child  to  his  father  whom  he  supposes  to  be  still  alive 
in  the  trenches,  begging  him  to  come  home  quick,  every- 
thing so  changed  at  home.  "Maman  wears  ugly  black 
clothes,  and  only  cries,"  and  "the  other  children  in  the 
street  who  play  with  me  give  me  a  new  nickname,  though 
they  won't  say  what  it  means  —  'orphan.'"  A  lady, 
Madame  Thirard,  sang  seven  or  eight  Old  French  songs, 
quite  exquisitely,  her  voice  and  training  simply  magnifi- 
cent: though  she  was  not  professional.  My  servant 
is  clumping  about,  trying  to  make  me  give  him  my 
letters,  and  nearly  driving  me  mad.  His  boots  weigh 
hundred-weights  and  the  noise  they  make  on  this  parquet 
is  appalling.  I  must  stop  or  I  shall  assassinate  Rifleman 
Wilcox  with  a  nail-scissors. 

July  5,  1915 

I  AM  going  to  fire  off  my  letter  to  you,  but  without 
much  knowing  what  to  put  in  it. 

It  is  almost  cold  sitting  at  my  window;  there  has  been 
a  hot  enough  sun  all  day,  and  when  one  was  walking 
about  one  did  not  fail  to  feel  hot:  but  the  wind  is  so  strong 
and  fresh  that  after  sitting  still  for  a  while  it  is  almost 
more  than  cool:  so  I  am  freshened  up:  though,  as  I  have 
already  remarked  several  times,  the  recent  goes  of  heat 
have  never  tired  me  like  the  first;  because  my  health 
is  quite  all  right  again. 

This  afternoon  I  had  a  long  talk  with  a  young  wounded 
Scotch  officer.  Not  a  Catholic;  but  a  Presbyterian,  a 
son  of  Lord  Balfour  of  Burleigh.  He  was  shot  straight 
through  the  head,  just  under  the  eyes,  from  one  side  of 
the  cheek  bone  to  the  other:  he  seems  doing  well,  but 
cannot  use  his  eyes  much.  He  seemed  glad  to  have  me 
to  talk  to,  and  I  stayed  over  an  hour  with  him.  He  was 
at  Balliol  and  is  a  man  of  books  and  literature.  It 
was  rather  funny,  I  had  just  before  been  talking  down  in 


226       John  Ayscough^s  Letters  to  his  Mother 

the  wards  to  another  young  Scotsman,  a  charming  lad 
of  eighteen,  also  Presbyterian,  and  I  told  Mr.  Balfour 
about  him.  "Do  you  know  where  he  is  from,  and  his 
regiment?"  he  asked.  "Yes,  from  P'alkirk  in  Stirling- 
shire, and  he  is  in  the  Argylls."  "Good  gracious,  Mon- 
signor!"  Mr.  Balfour  exclaimed,  "what  an  ear  you 
must  have!  You  answered  me  exactly  in  the  Stirling- 
shire accent." 

I  told  him  that  I  found  it  much  easier  to  talk  in  Scots 
dialect  than  in  Irish  brogue,  though  I  am  half  Irish, 
and  have  never  set  foot  in  Scotland. 

He  is  really  nice,  and  clever,  too,  and  he  won  my 
heart  by  praising  my  Royal  Irish  Rifles  whom  he  had 
come  across  at  the  front.  He  said  they  were  quite  charm- 
ing;   and,  as  a  rule,  Scotsmen  don't  appreciate  the  Irish. 

(Here's  a  young  French  soldier  come  to  see  me,  so  I 
must  finish  after  dinner). 

9.30  P.M. 

He  stayed  till  8.45,  then  I  dined  and  read,  and  now 
back  to  my  letter.  I  happened  to  read  during  my  little 
lonely  meal  the  part  of  David  Copperfield  where  his 
aunt  bids  him  be  patient  with  "Little  Blossom"  and  not 
try  to  worry  her  into  being  something  she  could  never 
be:  oddly  enough  this  pricked  my  own  conscience  about 
F.;  I  am  always  trying  to  make  people  have  my  own 
tastes,  when  after  all  they  only  are  tastes,  and  others 
have  just  as  much  right  to  theirs.  I  am  energetic, 
hating  to  be  a  moment  without  definite  occupation, 
eager  to  be  reading,  or  writing,  or  learning  something: 
and  I  think  I  have  been  tormenting  him  to  be  the  same, 
when  it  is  not  his  nature,  and  when  he,  poor  child,  is 
broken  down  in  health  and  hope.  Perhaps  I  have  half 
reproached  him  with  causing  me  to  be  idle,  when  really 
there  is  no  idleness  in  helping  and  comforting  one  who  is 
lonely  and  needs  help  and  comfort. 

I  feel  sure  that  this  lesson  God  has  sent  me,  bidding 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother       227 

me  be  more  patient,  and  learn  from  /?m,  for  the  boy  has 
a  gentle  sweetness  of  heart  that  is  far  beyond  me.  He  is 
never  sharp,  or  sarcastic,  never  says  a  cutting  thing  to 
wound. 

Well,  to  go  on. 

I  have  not  thanked  you  for  the  dear  little  silk  bag  of 
lavender,  which  I  keep  close  to  me:  smelling  of  home  and 
our  little  quiet  garden,  and  made  by  you  for  me.  But 
you  may  be  sure  I  shall  keep  it,  lovingly,  till  we  meet. 

Talking  of  my  sharp  tongue:  it's  a  pity  it  does  not  grow 
out  of  my  heart  instead  of  my  mouth!  My  heart  is 
neither  cold  nor  hard,  nor  bitter;  but  my  tongue  is, 
and  it  often  "pique"  as  they  say  here  —  "pique  comme 
les  moustiques."  It  happens  sometimes  that  I  speak 
sharply  because  I  am  so  sad.  I  have  suffered  so  many 
hurts  during  this  agony  of  war  —  if  I  were  a  coward, 
which  I  know  I'm  not,  I  should  long  ago  have  said, 
"Never  make  a  new  friend:  the  war  will  hurt  you  in 
him,  kill  him  for  you."  But  that  meanness  I  do  refuse, 
and  God  sends  me  almost  daily  a  new  friend  —  and, 
then,  some  day,  comes  the  news  that  one  of  these  friends 
has  been  killed;  and  it  makes  me  so  sore  that  all  my 
heart  is  sore,  and,  to  hide  tears,  I  speak  with  a  quick 
sharpness.  O  dear!  And  all  the  time  I  can  be  gentle, 
only  it  is  more  trouble;  as  for  poor  F.  I  know  I  could 
easily  so  wound  him  that  he  would  just  give  it  all  up 
and  despair  of  pleasing  me.  He  does  not  know  how  to 
"let  fly  back"  or  reproach.  He  is  very  shy  and  sen- 
sitive. 

When  he  was  a  tiny  child  his  father  was  angry  with 
him  and  said,  "You  had  better  go  to  your  uncle.  I 
don't  want  you  here."  And  he  took  it  silently,  seriously, 
and  walked  off,  not  to  his  uncle's,  because  he  was  ashamed, 
but  away  in  the  night  into  the  mountains.  It  seemed 
to  him  impossible  to  stay  where  he  was  not  wanted. 
And  at  twenty-three  he  would  do  much  the  same  now. 

Also  when  he  was  tiny  a  cousin  of  his  stole  some  money 


228       John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

from  Baron  C,  and  the  Baron  accused  his  son  of  it. 
"I  do  not  steal,"  was  all  he  would  say;  and  his  father 
beat  him,  and  he  was  broken-hearted  to  be  thought 
capable  of  stealing.  But  he  would  not  explain,  though 
he  guessed.  At  last,  after  days  of  disgrace  and  bread  and 
water  for  him,  his  aunt,  the  cousin's  mother,  herself 
found  out  who  had  stolen,  and  went  to  his  father  and 
told  him. 

"I,"  said  I,  "should  never  have  forgiven  him;  not  for 
the  beating,  but  for  thinking  me,  his  son,  a  thief." 

"But,"  said  F.,  "my  father  cried;  and  it  seemed  fear- 
ful to  me  that  he  should  cry  about  me.  Of  course  I 
forgave  him  in  a  minute.  Only  I  was  ashamed,  because 
he  begged  my  forgiveness,  and  sons  are  not  to  pardon  but 
to  be  pardoned." 

Well,  it  is  bed-time,  and  I  want  to  try  and  get  to  sleep 
early:  I  always  get  up  rather  early,  and  when  I  sit  up 
late  I  do  not  soon  get  to  sleep:  when  I  go  early  to  bed 
I  sleep  almost  at  once. 

Give  my  best  love  to  Alice  and  Christie:  I  have  none 
to  give  you,  because  you  have  had  it  all  these  fifty-seven 
years. 

Monday  Evening 

It  was  only  this  morning  that  I  wrote  to  you,  but  I  am 
beginning  again  instead  of  waiting  for  to-morrow  morn- 
ing, for  the  reason  I  have  so  often  given  you  —  that  when 
I  do  put  it  off  till  the  morning  I  am  constantly  called 
away,  or  interrupted. 

This  morning  I  had  barely  finished  writing  to  you 
when  F.  walked  in,  whom  I  had  not  expected  to  see 
to-day  at  all.  The  doctor  in  charge  of  his  hospital  had 
invited  us  both  to  luncheon  and  he  had  come  to  march 
me  off.  The  doctor's  name  is  de  Grande  Maison,  whose 
son,  Richard  de  Grande  Maison,  I  have  known  for  some 
weeks. 


John  Ayscough^s  Letters  to  his  Mother       229 

We  lunched  with  Dr.  de  Grande  Maison  at  a  restaurant 
and  got  on  very  well:  but  I  left  most  of  the  talking  to 
them.  Sometimes  I  get  fierce  attacks  of  laziness  and 
don't  feel  inclined  to  expose  my  queer  French,  or  expose 
myself  to  queerer  English;  then  I  fall  into  brilliant  flashes 
of  silence.  However,  when  we  parted  the  doctor  said 
I  must  come  and  lunch  with  him  ''in  the  chest  of  his 
family." 

Then  F.  went  home  to  his  hospital  and  I  went  to  mine 
to  do  a  little  work  among  the  wounded  and  sick.  The 
Llangollen  man  has  gone  away  and  I  could  not  ask  him 
to  tell  me  again  the  name  of  the  Stewarts'  house  — 
was  it  Aber-dy-coed .?  It  was  something  hke  that,  I'm 
sure. 

A  soldier  who  works  in  the  garden  here  (one  of  the 
sixty  who  sleep  in  the  barn)  has  only  one  eye;  and  I 
asked  him  if  it  was  the  Germans  who  had  deprived  him 
of  the  other.  He  said.  No,  he  had  lost  it  long  ago; 
when  he  was  a  baby,  a  wasp  had  stung  it  out!  I  think 
that  sounds  almost  worse  than  a  bullet. 

Next  Sunday  there  are  going  to  be  Grandes  Eaux  in  the 
park  and  gardens,  that  is  to  say,  all  the  thousands  of 
fountains  are  going  to  play  —  for  the  first,  and  perhaps 
the  only  time  during  the  war.  It  is  a  great  sight,  and 
if  it  isn't  too  hot  I  shall  certainly  go  and  see  it.  You 
remember  my  telling  you  about  a  young  Scotsman  whose 
accent  I  reproduced  so  well  to  young  Balfour  of  Burleigh 
that  he  was  rather  impressed  by  the  excellence  of  my  ear? 
Well,  he  wasn't  a  Catholic  —  on  the  contrary  an  excel- 
lent Presbyterian!  But  he  wrote  me  such  a  dear  little 
letter  from  Scotland  to  thank  me  for  my  kindness,  and 
to-day  comes  another  —  I  sent  him  one  of  those  post- 
card portraits  in  uniform.  "It  was  kind  of  you  to  send 
it,"  he  says,  "and  my,  it  could  be  no  hker  you.  I  let 
two  of  the  chaps  that  were  in  Versailles  see  it,  and  we  all 
love  it,  because  you  were  so  kind  and  true.  ..."  I 
think  that  "true"  such  a  nice  expression. 


230       John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

Friday y  2  p.m.,  July  9,  191 5 

I  HAD  again  put  off  my  letter  to  you  till  this  morning, 
and  just  as  I  began,  before  going  round  to  the  hospital, 
a  young  PVench  officer  came  to  find  me,  sent  by  that 
Colonel  Comte  du  Manoir  who  was  Commandant  d'Armes 
at  Dieppe.  My  visitor  is  called  Lieutenant  Tabourier, 
a  very  nice  young  fellow,  extremely  well-bred,  but  oh, 
so  ill!  He  has  been  invalided  down  from  the  trenches, 
suffering  from  gastro-enteritis,  and  it  is  a  chronic  sort  that 
will  keep  him  ill  for  ever  so  long.  He  looks  like  a  skele- 
ton chicken^  and  is  evidently  so  weak  he  can  hardly  move 
about.  It  seems  he  can  eat  nothing,  digest  nothing, 
not  even  milk. 

However,  he  can  talk,  and  did  so.  He  is  devoted  to 
England  and  the  English,  and  has  been  a  good  deal  in 
England.  He  is  a  little  thing,  as  short  as  I  am  (only 
much  less  of  him)  and  he  rather  touched  me,  he  looked 
so  wistful  as  he  spoke  of  his  ruined  health.  He  lives 
here  with  his  mother,  who  has  taken  a  house  to  be  near 
another  soldier  son  in  garrison  here. 

Yesterday  afternoon  I  returned  the  call  of  the  Ong- 
ding-dongs,  but  saw  no  one;  the  maid  said  Madame 
was  in  but  invisible.  Their  staircase  smelt  vehemently 
of  cats. 

Why  do  you  spell  Ayscough  without  the  "y"?  As- 
cough.^  I  notice  you  always  do,  and  it  makes  me  laugh 
that  you  shouldn't  know  your  own  son's  name. 

Monday  Mornings  July  12,  191 5 

A  NEW  lot  of  wounded  and  sick  came  in  yesterday, 
but  not  a  very  big  lot  —  two  hundred  and  eighty.  There 
were  very  few  Catholics  among  them,  the  largest  pro- 
portion being  Presbyterians. 

In  the  afternoon  I  went  to  the  Park  to  see  the  Grandes 
Eaux,  but  I  thought  the  vast  crowd  more  interesting  than 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother       231 

the  fountains.  Of  course  there  was  no  crowd,  for  no 
conceivable  number  of  people  could  crowd  those  vast 
gardens  and  terraces.  I  should  say  there  were  at  least 
thirty  thousand  soldiers  only  —  apart  from  the  civilians 
—  and  of  these  many  were  wounded.  A  French  crowd 
is  not  a  bit  like  an  English  one;  there  is  no  jostling, 
or  hustling,  no  horse-play  or  noise:  and  not  a  hint  of 
anyone  the  worse  for  drink. 

The  gardens  looked  charming;  with  immense  numbers 
of  flowers  blown  out  since  my  last  visit  to  them. 

After  all,  I  did  not  stay  very  long:  it  seems  to  me  you 
can't  go  on  staring  at  fountains  playing,  and  as  for  walk- 
ing about  the  park  and  gardens  I  prefer  doing  that  when 
they  are  nearly  empty.  So  I  trotted  home,  had  my  tea, 
and  went  back  to  do  a  little  work  in  the  hospital.  Then 
home,  where  I  began  reading  again  George  Meredith's 
"Ordeal  of  Richard  Feverel"  which  I  had  not  read  for 
twelve  years. 

Of  course  it  is  brilliant;  but  it  is  restlessly  so,  uneasy, 
and  one  feels  as  if  the  author,  while  telling  his  story,  was 
letting  off  fireworks  round  your  head  all  the  time.  I 
will  send  it  on  for  you  to  read. 

I  think  "Can  you  Forgive  Her.?"  very  good.  What 
excellent  characters  old  Lady  Macleod,  the  old  Squire, 
Kate  Vavasor,  and  Planty  Pall  are  —  so,  too,  is  Lady 
Glencora,  though  (like  you)  I  want  to  box  her  ears. 
And  the  minor  characters  are  excellent  also  —  The 
Marchioness,  Lady  Auld  Reekie,  the  Misses  Palliser, 
Alice's  father,  Geoffrey  Palliser  —  all  as  good  as  pos- 
sible: and  Aunt  Greenow  perfect.  The  great  failure  is 
Mr.  Grey:  he  is  terribly  good  and  I  don't  wonder  Alice 
didn't  want  to  marry  him,  and  be  bottled  up  with  him 
and  his  housekeeper  in  Cambridgeshire.  She  ought 
to  have  married  Geoffrey  Palliser.  George  Vavasor  is 
appalling,  but  all  the  same  he  is  splendidly  drav/n — 
too  well  for  one's  comfort:  he  gives  me  the  "creeps" 
even  to  read  of. 


232       John  Ayscough^s  Letters  to  his  Mother 

Your  letter  of  Friday  came  this  morning:  I  am  so 
glad  you  are  getting  the  high  comb:  it  shows  you  are 
interested  in  your  mantilla!  .   .   . 

F.  being  away  makes  me  realize  fully  how  awfully 
tired  I  am  of  Versailles,  and  of  being  in  France  at  all. 
I  like  the  French  immensely,  and  love  the  French  soldier, 
but  oh!  I  am  homesick!  You  see  I  am  odd.  I  only 
care  to  have  friends,  and  acquaintances  bore  me  to  ex- 
tinction. And  very  often  French  bores  me.  I  long  to 
talk  in  a  language  in  which  I  can  talk:  and  I  want  my 
own  things  around  me,  our  own  fields  to  look  out  on,  my 
own  roof  over  my  head.  Though  I  must  confess  I  like 
the  French  people  much  better  than  the  Wiltshire  villager. 

Now  I  must  go  to  the  hospital  and  so  good-bye. 

Monday  Night,  July  12,  191 5 

To-day  it  has  been  fresh,  almost  cool,  i.e.  the  air 
has  really  been  cool,  only  the  sun  has  been  hot,  and  when 
one  had  been  moving  about  quickly  one  got  hot  enough 
—  because  in  addition  to  the  warm  sun  the  air  here  is 
always  moist.  I  should  not  care  to  live  at  Versailles  at 
all,  because  I  am  sure  I  should  never  feel  energetic  here, 
at  least  in  summer.  I  really  don't  know  what  I  am 
going  to  make  a  letter  out  of — I  have  done  nothing, 
outside  the  routine  of  the  hospital,  and  seen  nobody 
except  the  hospital  staff  and  patients.  I  asked  the 
matron,  who  is  a  very  nice  woman,  what  she  thought 
of  the  Grandes  Eaux  yesterday,  and  she  was,  like  myself, 
a  little  disappointed:  I  told  her  of  a  remark  I  overheard 
a  French  soldier  make,  and  she  said  it  was  extremely 
descriptive,  though  not  very  refined!  I  must  tell  you 
that  I  was  standing  near  the  Fountain  of  Latona,  the 
design  of  which  resembles  an  enormous  wedding-cake. 
At  the  top,  in  the  centre,  is  Latona;  around  the  top  tier 
are  bronze  frogs  gilt,  and  around  the  next  tier  bronze- 
gilt  tortoises,  around  the  next  bronze-gilt  alligators.     We 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother       233 

were  all  waiting  for  the  water  to  come  gushing  and 
spouting  out  of  all  their  open  mouths.  But  instead  of 
beginning  with  a  fierce  gush  it  began  with  a  slobbering 
dribble.  "Poor  frogs,"  said  the  soldier,  "they  are 
weak:  they  can  hardly  be  sick."  This  morning  I  went 
for  a  little  turn  in  the  gardens  and  thought  how  much 
nicer  they  were  with  not  a  soul  in  them.  The  flowers 
looked  charming,  and  the  beds  and  borders  are  arranged 
with  such  taste  and  simplicity. 

On  Thursday  night  young  Vicomte  de  Missiessy  is 
coming  to  dinner,  and  I  am  dining  with  his  people  another 
night.  He  is  now  a  soldier,  having  become  eighteen 
a  month  ago,  and  is  in  a  dragoon  regiment  here.  He  is 
a  very  nice  lad,  extremely  well-bred  as  well  as  being  nice- 
looking.  Comtesse  de  Missiessy  is  charming,  of  Mrs. 
Lawrence  Drummond's  type,  as  I  remember  telling  you. 
She  is  Belgian,  but  her  husband  French.  I  shall  ask 
Chavasse  (of  our  hospital),  F.,  and  young  Lieutenant 
Tabourier  to  meet  him.  Chavasse  doesn't  talk  much 
French,  and  de  Missiessy  and  Tabourier  both  talk 
English.  Chavasse  is  the  officer  who  blood-poisoned 
his  finger  some  weeks  ago.  He  is  better,  but  not  well 
yet;  it  is  funny  his  talking  no  French,  for  I  suppose  he 
is  French  —  at  all  events,  Chavasse  is  a  purely  French 
name. 

I  see  the  Emperor  William  has  announced  that  there 
will  be  no  winter  campaign,  i.e..,  that  the  war  will  be  over 
before  the  winter.  I  hope  he  will  prove  right,  but  it 
doesn't  depend  on  him,  as  he  wants  Germany  to  think. 

.  .  .  The  nun  who  sends  the  St.  Joseph's  Lilies  asked  me 
to  note  what  the  American  poet,  Joyce  Kilmer,  who  was 
converted  by  "Gracechurch,"  says  of  me  in  it.  What 
does  he  say? 

Saturday  Nighty  July  17,  191 5 

I  HAVE  just  come  in  from  another  longish  walk,  and 
again  feel  much  better  for  it;    even  when  one  comes  in 


234       John  Ayscough^s  Letters  to  his  Mother 

tired  from  walking  —  unless  it  should  be  a  walk  alto- 
gether too  long  —  it  is  a  good  sort  of  tiredness,  and  does 
one  no  harm.  One  rests  and  it  is  gone.  What  I  hate  is 
the  feeling  of  tiredness  when  one  has  done  nothing;  and 
as  to  that  I  am  ever  so  much  better. 

F.  and  I  went  in  to  Paris  this  morning,  and  lunched  with 
Lady  Austin-Lee.  .  .  .  She  asked  me  to  give  her 
luncheon  here  on  Tuesday,  and  I  have  asked  Com- 
tesse  de  Missiessy  to  come  and  meet  her.  After  lun- 
cheon she  had  to  go  out  with  Princess  de  Moskowa, 
grand-niece  of  Napoleon  I,  and  I  went  and  did  a  little 
shopping. 

I  am  very  glad  that  Ver's  tiny  holiday  did  him  good, 
and  you  must  ask  him  again.  I  think  the  Manor  House 
is  a  peaceful  spot,  and  I  think  an  antidote  to  the  war- 
microbe  whereby  we  are  all  devastated.  What  a  bore 
for  Christie  and  Alice  that  the  old  church  is  being  closed 
(like  a  club)  for  alteration  and  repairs:  it  is  so  near  and 
so  homely. 

Yes,  I  was  amused  at  M.  G.  finding  you  "deffer,"  as 
he  seems  to  have  tried  very  Httle  to  grapple  with  your 
dephness.  There  are  none  so  dumb  as  those  who  have 
nothing  on  earth  to  say.  I  think  next  time  he  comes 
you  and  he  had  better  correspond  across  the  table,  as 
you  and  Mr.  Gater  used  to  do. 

There  was  once  an  old  Lord  William  Compton  who  was 
absolutely  ^' def  and  would  use  no  sort  of  trumpet, 
but  he  kept  a  slate  on  his  table  and  his  friends  had  to 
write  on  it:  he  was  very  impatient,  and  watched  what 
they  were  writing,  to  guess  from  the  beginning  of  the 
sentence  what  the  whole  of  it  would  be;  and  he  would 
not  let  them  put  in  all  the  little  words,  articles,  prepo- 
sitions, etc.  One  day  Lady  Northampton  wanted  to 
tell  him  that  the  Queen  (Victoria)  was  perhaps  going 
to  take  a  cruise  to  Madeira.  She  only  got  as  far  as 
"Queen  perhaps  going  Mad,"  when  he  snatched  the 
slate  out  of  her  hand  and  shouted: 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother       235 

*' Don't  tell  me!  She's  as  sane  as  you  are,  though 
George  III  was  her  grandfather!" 

You'd  be  just  like  that  if  you  had  a  slate,  so  I  hope 
you  won't  start  one. 

My  soldier-servant  has  been  boxing  every  night  this 
week  in  a  tournament,  and  last  night  was  the  final; 
he  came  off  best  of  all,  and  won  the  "purse"  —  also  he 
obtained  two  black  eyes,  not  very  black.  Oddly  enough, 
before  he  was  my  servant,  he  was  poor  Richard  Eden's  — 
Lady  Auckland's  elder  son,  whom  you  remember  as  a 
small  boy  at  Plymouth.  He  was  killed  some  months 
ago  at  the  front.  He  was  about  twenty  or  twenty-one. 
So  the  younger  brother,  whom  his  mother  brought  to 
see  us,  will  be  the  next  Auckland. 

Madame  Beranek  announced  three-quarters  of  an 
hour  ago  that  my  dinner  was  ready:  so  I'd  better  go 
and  eat  it.     Good  night. 

Sunday  Evenings  July  18,  191 5 

It  has  been  an  excellent  day,  fine,  but  fresh,  and  now 
it  is  heavenly;  still  cool,  but  with  a  clear,  cloudless  sky, 
pale  forget-me-not  blue  at  the  zenith  fading  down  from 
lavender  to  faded  rose-leaf  tint  at  the  horizon;  the 
swallows  flying  miles  high  —  almost  among  the  aero- 
planes! 

I  know  you  hate  the  black  sort  of  day  you  describe  in 
the  letter  that  came  from  you  to-day,  wet,  cold,  dark: 
but  honestly  I  don't.  I  can't  pretend  that  it  is  the 
weather  I  should  choose  for  a  long  march  in  khaki, 
without  umbrella  or  mackintosh:  but  for  an  indoors 
day  I  like  it  —  it  makes  me  feel  pleasant,  homey,  and 
sheltered!  They  laughed  at  me  here  the  other  day 
because  the  weather  was  just  like  that,  and  everyone 
was  saying  "How  miserable!"  but  I  could  not  pretend 
to  agree,  and  confessed  I  liked  it.  "It's  like  England," 
I  declared. 


236       John  Ayscouglfs  Letters  to  his  Mother 

From  12.45  fo  3-15  —  <^wo  hours  and  a  half —  I  walked 
to-day,  and  it  did  me  tons  of  good.  I  walked  nearly 
all  over  the  park,  through  woody  places  I  had  not  visited, 
and  all  round  the  Grand  Canal  to  the  Big  and  Little 
Trianons,  through  them  both,  and  so  out  by  the  gate 
near  our  hospital,  where  I  went  in  and  did  some  visiting, 
my  young  Jew  among  others. 

Then  home  to  tea:  and  that's  all  my  doings.  How 
can  I  make  you  a  letter  of  such  monotonies  .f*  I  am  ever 
so  much  better,  and  feel  stronger  every  day:  it  has  never 
been  very  hot  quite  lately:  and  that  has  given  me  a 
chance  of  recovering  my  strength. 

.  .  .  Lord  Glenconner's  son  at  the  Dardanelles  sends 
good  news,  and  is  so  far  safe  and  sound:  they  are  very 
happy  about  the  marriage  —  engagement,  I  mean: 
the  marriage  is  to  be  in  August.  The  bridegroom,  who 
is  in  the  2d  Life  Guards  is  a  son  of  a  Yorkshire  squire. 

.  .  .  Mme.  Beranek  says  I  'm  to  go  and  eat. 


Monday  Morning.,  9.30 

Your  letter  of  Friday  has  just  come,  and  I  am  delighted 
to  hear  that  the  gowns  have  come  and  are  a  success: 
I  hope  to  see  you  in  them  one  of  these  days.  I  am  sure 
that  cafe-au-lait  coloured  gown  ought  to  suit  you. 

Wilcox  tells  me  that  a  large  convoy  of  over  seven 
hundred  wounded  is  expected  at  the  hospital  and  I 
must  go  round  there. 

Monday  Night,  July  19,  191 5 

It  is  half-past  ten  and  I  ought  to  go  to  bed  instead 
of  beginning  a  letter  to  you!  I  have  just  got  in  from 
dining  with  Comtesse  de  Missiessy  (as  you  find  the 
name  difficult,  I  will  spell  it  in  capitals,  MISSIESSY), 
where  I  had  a  delightful  evening.  She  is  quite  charming, 
and  so  are  her  children:    the  eldest,  the  young  Count, 


John  Ayscougif}  s  Letters  to  his  Mother       237 

is  at  the  front;  but  my  friend  Michel  was  there,  and 
the  daughter,  a  very  pretty,  distinguee  girl  —  very 
English-looking,  and  extremely  proud  of  looking  so! 
They  all  talk  English  well,  Madame  de  Missiessy,  per- 
fectly. There  was  also  a  dear  little  soldier,  Henri  Manon, 
who  talked  it  nicely,  though  with  less  care. 

Besides  there  were  four  ladies  —  not  babies  —  who 
talked  only  French,  but  all  very  nice.  ...  It  was 
Madame  de  Missiessy's  fete,  and  I  fortunately  knew  it, 
and  took  her  a  box  of  beautiful  flowers,  which  everybody 
raved  over. 

Just  after  I  had  arrived,  all  the  others  (including  the 
fiance  of  Mademoiselle)  trooped  in,  all  bearing  flowers, 
and  some  bonbons  and  presents,  and  administered  them 
to  Madame  with  infinite  embracing.  It  was  all  very 
intimate  and  cordial,  and  pretty,  and  I  was  glad  to  see 
it  all. 

The  house  (it  is  an  ''apartment"  or,  as  we  say,  a  flat) 
is  charming,  and  all  arranged  with  excellent  taste  like 
an  Enghsh  house  of  the  best  class.  .  .  .  And  the  people 
were  to  match:  there  was  a  general  air  of  real  distinction, 
with  perfect  simplicity  and  cheerful  cordiality.  The  din- 
ner was  quite  excellent,  too,  and  the  conversation  easy, 
interesting,  and  pleasant,  no  gossip. 

The  Comtesse  is  just  forty,  and  has  been  a  widow 
eighteen  years,  since  six  months  before  Michel's  birth. 
She  is  so  pretty,  with  heaps  of  white  hair,  very  dark 
eyebrows,  big,  dark-blue  eyes,  and  a  brilhant,  youthful 
complexion.  The  future  son-in-law  is  very  intelligent, 
and  talks  admirably,  but  not  in  English.  It  was  a 
great  contrast  to  my  luncheon  party  here,  which  bored 
me  flat. 

My  guests  arrived  at  eleven-thirty  and  stayed  till 
nearly  four!  And  the  doctor!  He  is,  I  am  sure,  clever 
in  his  way,  but  his  way  is  not  my  way.  Luncheon  was 
over  by  quarter-past  one:  I  hoped  that  after  a  cigarette 
the  doctor  would  go  to  look  after  his  patients,  but  No! 


238       John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

he  sat  on  at  the  table  till  twenty  to  four,  and  I  nearly 
died  of  sleepiness!  Two  and  a  half  hours!  O  dear! 
How  I  wished  all  his  patients  would  get  worse  and  send 
round  for  him.  To  look  at  him  he  is  very  like  Captain 
Cust,  but  without  a  bit  of  Captain  Cust's  social  charm 
and  talent.  The  son  would,  I  think,  have  been  better 
company  had  his  papa  not  been  there.  As  it  was  he 
only  ate  and  smiled:  his  smile  is  enormous,  as  big  as  a 
tea-plate. 

Now  I  've  told  you  my  day's  dissipations,  I  will  go  to 
bed! 

Wednesday,  July  21,  191 5 

I  OUGHT  to  have  written  to  you  last  night,  but  stayed 
out  walking  till  8.20,  and  it  was  8.45  before  I  had  changed 
and  washed  for  dinner;  9.30  before  I  had  finished  dinner, 
as  I  smoked  and  read  papers  after  it;  and  when  I  came 
up  I  went  to  bed.  Some  weeks  ago  I  was  sleeping  ex- 
tremely badly,  but  now  I  am  sleeping  excellently  again, 
as  it  is  my  custom  to  do. 

Wednesday  Night. 

I  HAD  only  got  so  far  this  morning  when  I  had  to  go 
off  to  the  hospital  and  have  only  now  got  back  too 
late  for  to-day's  post!  I  hope  you  will  forgive  me:  I 
do  not  very  often  miss  a  day,  but  somehow  to-day  I 
seemed  running  after  things  without  overtaking  them. 

To  go  back,  first,  to  yesterday,  my  luncheon  party 
was  a  great  success,  a  marked  contrast  to  that  of  the 
day  before.  Lady  Austin-Lee  and  Comtesse  de  Missiessy 
got  on  like  a  house  afire,  and  there  was  plenty  of  inter- 
esting and  nice  talk.  Afterwards  M.  Milicent,  the 
future  son-in-law,  came  in  to  pay  his  respects  to  me, 
and  soon  after  Mile,  de  Missiessy  called  for  her  mother, 
and  they  all  went  oflF.  I  enjoyed  it  as  much  as  I  had 
^zVenjoyed  the  tedious  though  excellent  doctor  and  his 
son. 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother       239 

This  morning  at  the  hospital  I  was  talking  to  my  young 
Jew:  I  must  tell  you  that  he  is  very  nice  and  not  at  all 
Israelitish-looking.  He  said,  "Yesterday  afternoon  a 
smart  lady  (Lady  Somebody)  from  Paris  was  visiting 
the  patients,  and  she  talked  to  me  a  long  time.  At 
last  in  speaking  of  this  hospital  she  said  it  was  a  Francis- 
can monastery  —  at  least  the  property  was,  but  the 
Government  turned  the  poor  Fathers  out,  and  confiscated 
the  property,  and  a  syndicate  of  nasty  Jews  bought  it 
and  built  this  hotel:  'Why  are  you  laughing?'  'Be- 
cause I  am  a  nasty  Jew  myself.'  'You!  Aren't  you 
English?'  'Oh  yes,  but  I  am  a  Jew.'  She  was  much 
taken  aback  and  went  off.  Then  the  man  in  the  next 
bed  said,  'Why  did  you  pull  her  leg?  She's  offended.' 
'Pull  her  leg?  How?'  'Pretending  to  be  a  Jew.'  'It's 
no  pretence,  I  am  a  Jew.'  'O  Lord!  I  thought  you  were 
Church  of  England  at  least.'" 

He  always  begs  me  to  stay  on  and  talk,  and  says  he 
looks  forward  so  to  my  coming.  He  is  not  a  very  strict 
Jew,  but  he  has  an  honest  young  face,  and  I  am  sure 
leads  a  good,  clean  life.  He  is  in  Lord  Denbigh's  regi- 
ment, the  Honourable  Artillery  Company.  I  remember 
once  their  coming  to  Bulford,  and  Lord  Denbigh  came 
and  chatted  after  Mass:  when  he  was  gone  the  orderly 
said,  "Ah,  in  that  regiment  even  the  'orses  are  baronets!" 

I  had  another  long  letter  to-day  from  Lady  O'Conor. 
She  was  very  much  pleased  by  your  inviting  her.  They 
are  going  at  the  beginning  of  next  month  to  a  house 
she  has  taken  near  Dorking,  where  the  Wilfrid  Wards 
live:  and  she  will  not  move  at  all  till  she  returns  to  Lon- 
don in  the  autumn. 

I  also  had  your  long  letter  of  Sunday.  I  owe  Winifred 
a  letter  since  the  Year  i,  and  ought  to'  answer  her,  and 
will  do  so.  But  I  am  terribly  lazy  about  letters.  There 
is  so  little  to  say. 

To-day's  papers  give  rather  depressing  accounts  of  the 
Russians,  and  I  am  afraid  they  will  lose  Warsaw,  though 


240       John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

I  still  hope  not.  Lloyd  George  seems  to  have  settled 
the  strike. 

...  I  had  better  bring  this  letter  of  scraps  to  a  close, 
and  go  to  bed. 

These  few  picture  post-cards  come  from  a  young  French 
friend  who  is  at  Clermont-Ferrard  in  the  Puy  de  Dome. 
He  says  their  hospitals  are  full  of  poor  French  soldiers 
with  their  eyes  burned  out  by  the  horrible  liquid  flame 
the  Germans  squirt  at  them.  I  wonder  what  next  the 
brutes  will  invent. 

There  is  a  good  article  this  week  by  the  M.P.,  Joynson- 
Hicks,  insisting  on  the  need  for  a  Minister  of  Aviation. 
Really,  but  for  the  Daily  Mail's  incessant  agitation  on 
the  subject,  our  forces  would  have  had  no  aircraft  when 
this  war  came  on  us. 

Yes,  I  quite  know  Solanums:  they  are  very  easy  to 
class:  and  I  never  thought  for  a  moment  that  Beranek 
was  right  as  to  the  flower  and  leaf  you  sent  by  me. 

Friday  Morning,  July  23,  191 5 

This  is  going  to  be  a  measly  short  letter:  yesterday 
I  was  doing  dull  odds  and  ends  of  things  all  day,  and 
from  tea-time  to  bed-time  (except  during  dinner)  was 
writing  duty  letters,  so  mine  to  you  never  came  off. 
I  walked  for  a  good  bit  in  the  afternoon,  but  only  in 
Versailles,  not  in  the  parks:  and  in  the  course  of  my 
perambulation  bought  the  enclosed  few  post-cards,  three 
of  our  hospital  ("Trianon  Palace")  and  the  rest  mis- 
cellaneous views  in  town  and  park:  I  do  not  remember 
having  bought  them  before,  but  may  have  done  so. 

It  began  raining  about  midnight,  and  went  on  till 
five  or  six  this  morning,  but  now  it  is  very  fine  and  very 
fresh. 

Your  story  of  the  General  and  his  execution  in  the 
Tower  is  indeed  *'  ghastly  " :  but  I  feel  sure  that  if  it  be  true 
his  name  could  not  be  hard  to  find  out,  for  Generals  do 


John  AyscougFs  Letters  to  his  Mother       241 

not  disappear  without  its  being  known,  and  before  they 
disappear  their  names  are  not  unknown.  Bert  does 
accumulate  most  tragic  stories:  don't  you  remember 
about  five  minutes  after  war  was  declared  his  informing 
us  that  eleven  German  Dreadnoughts  had  been  sent  to  the 
bottom  of  the  North  Sea  ?  —  and  unfortunately  it  isn't 
true  yet. 

Saturday  Evening,  July  24,  191 5 

Your  last  two  letters  from  me  were  measly  little 
things:  this  evening  I  will  try  and  write  you  at  all  events 
a  longer  one:  I  can't  undertake  to  make  it  a  more  inter- 
esting one,  as  my  day  has  produced  nothing  to  make  a 
letter  of. 

When  I  was  writing  this  morning  I  had  a  headache, 
but  it  is  quite  gone. 

I  am  writing  at  my  window,  but  the  only  colour  in 
the  garden  is  that  of  the  red  trousers  of  the  soldiers 
working  in  it;  for  the  moment  the  flowers  are  all  over, 
and  it  is  largely  Beranek's  fault;  for  there  were  tons  of 
geraniums  of  all  colours,  but  he  would  not  pick  any  and 
they  have  all  gone  to  seed. 

In  the  street  I  met  the  little  Lieutenant  Tabourier, 
of  whom  I  told  you  a  couple  of  weeks  ago;  the  young 
friend  of  my  friend,  Comte  du  Manoir,  Commandant 
d'Armes  at  Dieppe.  He  looked  all  clothes,  with  hardly 
enough  body  inside  to  hang  them  on.  The  two  young 
men  compared  notes  about  their  illness  (which  is  partly 
the  same)  and  it  seemed  to  me  rather  sad  and  tragic  to 
hear  them:  so  young  both,  and  so  wistfully  engaged 
both  in  the  hard  struggle  to  regain  life  and  health. 

This  morning  the  swallows  were  flying  along  the 
ground;  to-night  they  are  almost  out  of  sight  up  in  the  sky. 

It  is  a  pity  Mr.  Gater  can't  be  here;  there  are  tons  of 
butterflies,  and  plenty  of  good  ones;  some  big  ones  that 
I  have  never  seen  since  Llangollen  days,  and  some  that 
I  never  saw  before. 


242       John  Ayscouglfs  Letters  to  his  Mother 

To-day's  Paris  Daily  Mail  seemed  full  of  goodish 
news  —  Russian,  Serbian,  French,  and  English:  I  mean 
war  news. 

I  got  your  letter  this  morning,  enclosing  Lady 
O'Conor's,  and  one  from  her  to  myself  by  the  same  post: 
but  I  spoke  of  the  address  to  my  letters  in  mine  to  you 
this  A.M.  You  needn't  imagine  that  because  I  gave  her 
A.  P.  O.,  S.  6.,  B.  E.  Force  for  address,  that  I  have  been 
shipped  off  to  the  front  or  somewhere:  that  Post  office 
is  2W  No.  4  General  Hospital  —  a  regular  Post  office,  for 
telegrams,  registered  letters,  and  so  on. 

I  received  "The  Book  of  Snobs,"  and  had  my  nose  in 
it  while  I  drank  my  tea  this  afternoon.  My  tea  also 
comes  regularly  (I  don't  mean  in  the  tea-pot)  from  Eng- 
land, and  is  excellent.     French  people's  tea  is  despicable. 

A  Madame  D came  to  worry  me  yesterday,  sent 

by  the  nuns.  She,  it  seems,  has  always  had  English 
governesses,  and  wants  to  economise  during  the  war, 
but  does  7iot  want  her  boys  and  girls  to  forget  their  Eng- 
lish, so  she  had  conceived  the  brilliant  idea  that  a  nursing 
sister  from  the  hospital  might  come  and  chat  English 
with  her  family  daily  for  two  hours  —  for  a  cup  of  tea! 
I  should  like  to  see  them  do  it!  They  are  worked  ter- 
ribly hard,  and  it  is  sad  work  enough,  and  trying  to 
health;  when  they  get  off  duty  they  hke  to  be  out  in 
the  fresh  air,  in  the  park,  or  rowing  on  the  Grand  Canal, 
not    jammed    up    in    a    drawing-room    smelling    of   cats. 

Perhaps    Madame    D thought    /    might    offer    my 

services   as  unpaid  nursery-governess:   but   I   didn't. 

I  gather  from  you  that  Roger's  engagement  is  hung 
up  like  Mahomet's  coffin:  I  don't  fancy  he  will  break 
his  heart,  but  I  still  think  such  a  marriage  would  have 
added  to  the  comfort  of  his  decline  of  life.  I  rather 
admire  old  maids  (it  isn't  generally  their  fault),  but  I 
don't  at  all  admire  most  old  bachelors:  a  selfish,  un- 
amiable  race  as  a  rule. 

It  is  getting  too  dark  to  write,  and  /  will  dry  up: 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother       243 

The  whole  Beranek  family  baths  itself  on  Saturday 
nights  in  the  bath-room  adjoining  my  "apartment," 
and  does  it  with  unspeakable  groanings. 


Wednesday  Evening,  July  28,  191 5 

I  REALLY  think  I  must  invent  episodes  to  fill  my  letters 
with,  so  complete  is  the  absence  of  real  episodes  of  late. 
To-day's  events  are  as  follows.  Mass;  breakfast;  hos- 
pital;   luncheon;    visit  to  F,  in  hospital;    return  and  tea. 

Isn't  it  exciting? 

I  have  been  revelling  in  having  some  English  books 
to  read.  "The  Book  of  Snobs"  I  finished  in  two  days, 
but  there  are  other  stories  and  sketches  in  the  volume. 
And  I  have  just  read  rather  (only  rather)  a  nice  sketch 
of  Jane  Austen  —  but  anything  about  Jane  Austen 
interests  me. 

This  book  I  will  send  you  on  and  you  can  read  it  for 
yourself.  It  is  one  of  those  Lady  O'Conor  sent,  as  was 
"Mademoiselle  Ixe,"  which  I  sent  you  yesterday.  I 
read  "Mademoiselle  Ixe"  when  it  came  out  about  thirty 
years  ago,  and  cannot  read  it  again,  though  I  can  read 
all  Jane  Austen  (and  do)  twice  every  year,  and  all  George 
Eliot  at  least  once  each  year.  "Mademoiselle.  Ixe"  (so 
they  say)  was  refused  by  seventeen  publishers  and 
brought  the  publisher  who  accepted  it  at  last  so  much 
that  he  gave  the  authoress  £10,000  for  her  next  book 
that  no  one  cared  sixpence  for. 

Thursday  a.m. 

Your  letter  of  Monday  has  just  arrived,  and  I  am 
delighted  that  you  liked  the  Country  Life  and  the  odds 
and  ends  of  photographs  I  had  sent.  The  picture  of 
young  Percy  Wyndham  was  the  absolute  image  of  him: 
he  had  not  much  of  his  father's  family's  cleverness, 
but  he   had  a  very  sweet  and    kind   nature,  and   never 


244       John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

looked  as  if  he  knew  himself  to  possess  almost  perfect 
beauty.  So  far  as  I  can  gather,  neither  of  George 
Northey's  sons  is  killed,  but  Anson,  the  Catholic,  is 
wounded:  as  a  matter  of  fact,  the  younger,  Armand,  is 
a  cripple  and  could  not  be  out  here. 

It  is  bright  and  fine  but  quite  cool,  and  everyone  notices 
how  much  better  I  look  —  in  consequence. 

I  must  go  round  to  hospital. 

Friday  Evening,  July  30,  191 5 

It  has  been  a  lovely  day  and  is  now  a  lovely  evening, 
not  hot,  but  with  the  soft  afterglow  of  a  warm  sunset: 
swallows  miles  high,  and  a  sky  like  lavender-satin.  Down 
in  the  garden  the  French  soldiers  working,  chatting, 
laughing,  their  red  caps  and  legs  like  patches  of  blossom 
here  and  there  among  the  green. 

Mile.  Beranek  came  home  this  morning  from  Switzer- 
land, and  the  father  and  mother  are  shining  with  delight 
at  her  return;  this  bit  of  Edelweiss  she  brought  for  me 
and  I  send  it  on  to  you:  you  know  it  is  a  " porte-bonheury" 
otherwise  I  don't  particularly  admire  it,  it  is  too  flannel- 
petticoaty. 

I  did  some  work  in  hospital  this  a.m.,  but  we  have  not 
a  great  number  of  wounded  for  the  moment.  One  man 
is  doing  very  well  who  had  a  bullet  cut  out  of  the  muscles 
of  his  heart  three  days  ago!  After  all,  you  see,  some 
operations  do  good!  I  do  admire  the  doctors  and  nurses, 
they  have  such  hard  and  difficult  work,  and  do  it  all  with 
such  unfailing  gentleness  and  devotion. 

My  friend  Chavasse  is  now  quite  well  again  —  the 
young  doctor  who  cut  his  own  finger  very  deeply  while 
operating  on  a  gangrened  leg.  For  some  time  it  was 
touch  and  go  whether  he  would  develop  perhaps  a  fatal 
blood-poisoning. 

I  got  a  letter  just  now  from  a  friend  of  Lady  O'Conor's, 
a  Comtesse   de  who   lives  in   Paris,  asking  me  to 


John  Ayscough' s  Letters  to  his  Mother       245 

tea:  she  is  the  widow  of  a  diplomat,  Hke  Lady  O'C, 
and  she  speaks  with  ardent  affection  of  her.  She  has 
two  sons,  both  at  the  front. 

The  young  Jew  I  told  you  of  is  going  to  England  in  a 
day  or  two,  and  I  shall  quite  miss  him.  Yesterday  a 
Comtesse  somebody,  wife  of  a  friend  of  his,  came  to  see 
him,  and  the  Colonel  nabbed  her  as  she  was  going  in 
and  asked  ever  so  many  odd  questions.  "Was  she 
a  married  woman?"  etc.,  concluding  with,  "Have  you 
any  reason  to  think  it  will  give  him  any  pleasure  to  see 
you!^ 

A  fly  flew  into  my  right  eye  yesterday,  and  never  flew 
out  again:  it  felt  about  the  size  of  an  aeroplane  and  hurt, 
and  my  eye  still  pains  me.  No  doubt  it  was  meant  for 
a  compliment,  but  I'd  much  rather  flies  would  not  take 
my  eye  for  a  portion  of  the  firmament. 

This  afternoon  I  spent  with  F.  He  is  beginning  to  teach 
himself  English,  and  it  is  rather  funny,  especially  as  the 
book  (grammar  and  phrase-book)  is  most  ridiculous. 
Here  is  one  of  the  phrases  (mind,  the  book  is  quite  new 
and  modern!):  "These  ladies  are  uneasy  because  they 
have  no  back-scratchers."  I  assured  him  that,  though 
our  great-great-grandmothers  may  have  used  back- 
scratchers, English  ladies  are  not  now  uneasy  without 
them.  In  a  shop  the  purchaser  demands  "An  ounce  of 
tea  and  four  cheeses,"  and  I  hastened  to  relieve  his  mind 
as  to  the  sort  of  meal  he  might  expect  in  England.  What 
is  most  mysterious  is  that  while  there  is  no  sounded  H 
in  French  at  all,  in  English  he  (like  all  French  people) 
sticks  a  fierce  H  at  the  beginning  of  every  word  that 
really  starts  with  a  vowel.  He  is  rather  shocked  at 
Roger's  wanting  to  marry  a  young  female  of  twenty- 
seven,  and  thinks  it  will  lead  to  "chagrins"  —  the 
chagrin  being  that  the  young  lady  will  probably  flirt 
with  someone  nearer  her  own  age.  I  assured  him  that 
in  Roger's  neighbourhood  the  only  youths  would  be  sheep. 
Then  he  said,  "But  if  your  brother  has  a  son,  by  the 


246       John  AyscougV s  Letters  to  his  Mother 

time  he  is  twenty  your  brother  will  be  seventy-nine. 
How  can  he  educate  that  young  man  properly?"  I 
hinted  that  Roger  would  be  likely  to  bother  himself 
very  Httle  with  "that  young  man's  education."  French 
people  are  so  very  practical,  and  in  marriage  their  great 
idea  is  the  education  of  the  children.  I  couldn't  help 
laughing  at  the  picture  evoked  of  Roger  strenuously 
educating  his  son,  and  devoured  with  regret  that  he  was 
not  young  enough  to  be  a  companion  to  his  boy. 

I  pointed  out  that  Mrs.  Roger  would  add  much  to  her 
husband's  comfort  by  nursing  him  as  he  grew  old. 

"Good  gracious  {Mon  Dieu!),  do  you  marry  your  nurses 
in  England.?"  exclaimed  F.  in  horror. 

"Not  always.  Sometimes  (when  we  are  greedy)  we 
marry  our  cooks." 

But  that  he  refused  to  believe,  and  said  I  was  rigoleur. 
Mrs.  Beranek  says  I  am  to  go  down  to  my  dinner! 

So  good  night.  God  bless  you  and  give  you  none  but 
happy  dreams  ever. 

Saturday  Nighty  July  31,  191 5 

I  HAVE  often  grumbled  lately  because  I  had  nothing 
to  make  a  letter  out  of:  to-night  I  have  too  much,  though 
it  doesn't  concern  myself,  so  you  needn't  be  alarmed! 
It  concerns  the  Beraneks:  they  have  all  been  arrested 
and  carted  off  to  prison,  accused  of  being  spies. 

I  will  tell  you  the  whole  story.  When  I  came  in  this 
morning  from  saying  Mass,  I  saw  a  couple  of  strange 
men  outside  the  door,  but  didn't  think  much  of  it,  be- 
cause with  a  number  of  soldiers  quartered  in  the  grenier 
(it  isn't  a  real  barn,  but  a  sort  of  large  shed)  many  un- 
known people  come  and  go. 

But  when  I  got  into  the  hall,  there  was  Jeanne  Beranek, 
the  daughter,  who  cam^  to  me  in  floods  of  tears,  saying 
that  their  naturalisation  had  been  cancelled  and  that 
the  house  and  little  property  was  all  "sequestrated." 
In   the   dining-room  were   half  a   dozen    men    and   Mr. 


John  AyscougFs  Letters  to  his  Mother       247 

Beranek,  the  former  making  an  inventory  and  the 
latter  helping  them.  I  asked  him  in  EngHsh  what  it 
all  was,  and  he  said,  "  Our  naturalisation  has  been  can- 
celled and  all  I  have  is  put  under  a  'sequestration.'" 
I  then  talked  to  the  head  man  conducting  the  affair, 
who  was  of  course  extremely  civil  and  respectful  to  me. 
I  said  that  I  had  been  here  three  and  half  months,  and 
that  personally  I  could  only  give  the  Beraneks  an  excel- 
lent character.  But,  I  asked,  was  it  advisable  I  should 
quit,  and  he  said,  Oh,  no,  if  I  was  comfortable  here. 
Not  a  word  was  said  as  to  any  accusation  against  the 
Beraneks,  simply  that  their  naturahsation  was  suspended, 
and  that  the  Republic  took  over  their  property:  they 
could  not  sell  anything,  not  even  a  bunch  of  flowers, 
except  through  himself  as  administrator. 

They  cleared  out  and  left  me  to  my  breakfast.  I  went 
to  Paris  to  buy  some  things  I  wanted  for  F.,  and,  on 
my  way  back,  called  at  his  hospital  and  told  him  all  this. 
He  and  I  had  just  lately  discussed  things  here  and  won- 
dered if  everything  was  all  square.  Some  things  have 
seemed  to  me  fishy,  and  he  had  agreed  with  me. 

This  evening  his  godmother  was  there,  and  she  made 
little  of  it  all,  which  neither  he  nor  I  was  inclined  to  do. 
I  asked  him  if  I  had  better  clear  out,  and  he  quite  agreed 
that  I  had  better  seriously  consider  it.  She  pooh-poohed 
this,  and  saw  no  reason  at  all  for  our  ideas.  I  said, 
"But  suppose  they  were  arrested!" 

She  seemed  to  think  that  quite  absurd,  and  very  soon 
I  came  home  and  found  the  faithful  Wilcox  awaiting 
me:  he  told  me  the  house  was  locked  up,  and  empty, 
all  the  three  Beraneks,  father,  mother,  and  daughter, 
having  been  taken  away  by  the  police.  I  had  my  own 
key  and  let  myself  in,  my  own  rooms  were  open  and 
nothing  touched,  all  the  other  ro6ms  locked  up,  even  the 
kitchen,  larder,  etc.  I  went  out  to  get  some  dinner  at 
an  hotel,  as  I  could  not  even  make  myself  a  cup  of  tea 
here:  then  I  came  back  and  here  I  am. 


248       John  Ayscouglfs  Letters  to  his  Mother 

It  is  all  very  sad,  and  rather  tragic:  the  empty  house, 
the  thought  that  these  folk,  who  have  treated  me  well,  are 
in  prison.  I  do  not  pretend  to  be  certain  that  they  are 
innocent,  but  I  hope  so.  To-morrow  I  must  look  about 
for  some  other  quarters,  as  I  can't  be  bothered  to  go 
out  for  every  meal.  To-night  I  stop  here,  and  Wilcox  is 
coming  round  to  sleep  here,  as  I  prefer  not  to  stay  here 
quite  alone.  But  even  if  they  are  proved  innocent 
(and  it  is  so  hard  to  prove  innocence  even  when  innocence 
is  there),  it  is  not  Hkely  to  be  done  very  promptly:  and 
I  cannot  stay  on  here  with  everything  locked  up  — 
linen,  plates,  dishes,  knives  and  forks,  kitchen  fire  and 
everything. 

I  wish  the  nuns,  when  they  recommended  the  family 
to  me,  had  told  me  they  were  Germans.  I  should  not 
have  come  here,  for  I  don't  care  for  Germans  and  wanted 
to  be  with  French  people,  if  only  for  the  practice  in 
talking.  It  was  the  Beraneks  themselves  who  told  me 
after  I  had  been  here  awhile  that  they  were  only  natural- 
ised French  —  he  Bohemian  and  she  German. 

I  do  not  now  believe  that  they  are  spies:  but,  as  I 
said  to  F.  only  yesterday,  and  again  to  him  and  Madame 
M.  this  evening,  I  should  not  dare  to  say  that  it  is  impos- 
sible they  should  be.  There  are  certain  little  things  I 
have  mentioned  to  him,  and  he,  like  myself,  has  thought 
them  odd. 

(i)  Madame  B.  goes  to  Paris  once  every  week  and 
lately  oftener,  at  2  a.m.  i.e.,  in  the  middle  of  the  night, 
returning  late  in  the  following  afternoon.  Of  course 
this  is  to  sell  flowers  and  plants,  and  may  be  necessary: 
but  in  these  times,  when  they  know  they  are  suspected, 
I  think  it  at  least  imprudent  of  them  to  stick  to  such  a 
custom.  (2)  and  (3)  less  odd,  but  still  odd  —  they 
never  go  even  into  the  greenhouses  without  locking  up  the 
house,  that  is  why  I  have  my  own  key  of  it,  and,  as  Wil- 
cox noted,  the  men  who  come  to  see  Beranek  are  never 
received    anywhere    but    in    the    middle   of  the   garden. 


John  Ayscough^s  Letters  to  his  Mother       249 

where  no  one  could  overhear,  and  no  one  could  approach 
without  being  seen. 

(4)  and  (5).  Beranek  has  been  gardener  to  the  Emperor 
of  Russia,  and  for  years  to  the  Austrian  Ambassador  in 
Paris.  That  is  so  in  accord  with  German  methods  — 
to  plant  their  spies,  and  irawj-plant  them.  Why  did  the 
girl  stay  a  fortnight  in  Switzerland  just  now,  meeting 
Germans?  Of  course  the  little  niece  had  to  be  sent 
away,  the  police  insisted,  and  a  child  of  thirteen  could 
not  be  sent  alone,  but  I  think  Mile.  B.  would  have  been 
wise  to  take  her  to  Switzerland  and  come  straight  back. 
Perhaps,  for  a  gardener,  M.  B.  is  too  accomplished  a 
linguist,  talking  English,  French,  German,  Russian, 
Polish,  Bohemian  (Czechi),  Bulgarian  and  Serbian. 

Certainly  they  were  zvild  to  get  me  to  lodge  here:  and 
I  have  told  F.  since  that  it  had  seemed  to  me  possible 
that  this  was  because  I  am  an  English  officer  and  they 
thought  other  English  officers  would  be  constantly  com- 
ing here.  At  first  they  seemed  quite  indifferent  about 
money,  but  (since  no  English  officers  ever  come  here) 
they  have  shown  an  ever-increasing  keenness  about  it. 

By  this  time  I  expect  you  are  quite  sure  they  are 
spies!  I  am  not  a  bit:  but,  I  repeat,  F.  and  I  have  both 
discussed  all  this  (and  the  points  above  detailed)  and  we 
have  agreed  that  there  may  be  suspicious  features.  The 
fact  is  all  Germans  are  tarred  with  the  same  brush  and 
the  world  has  learned  that  none  are  above  suspicion,  at 
all  events. 

It  is  a  bore  to  turn  out:  it  is  so  quiet  and  peaceful 
here,  and  economical:  but  I  expect  to-morrow  or  next 
day  will  see  me  out  of  this. 

I  am  now  dog-sleepy  and  must  go  to  bed :  not  without 
a  prayer  for  these  poor  folk:  it  is  hard  to  think  of  them 
rushed  away  from  their  peaceful  and  pleasant  home 
to  a  prison:  and  they  may  so  well  be  innocent  all  the 
time. 


250       John  Ayscougb's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

Sunday  Evenings  August  i,  191 5 

It  is  quarter  to  seven  p.m.,  and  I  am  sitting  down  to 
tell  you  how  things  are  and  how  /  am.  I  am  very  well, 
though  the  fuss  of  yesterday  gave  me  a  rather  sleepless 
night  and  a  morning  of  neuralgia.  That  is  all  finished, 
and  I  am  quite  well. 

Young  Vicomte  de  Missiessy  came  to  call  half  an  hour 
ago  and  has  just  gone  away:  I  told  him  all  our  history 
here,  and  he  was  ever  so  much  interested  —  quite  excited! 
—  and  full  of  sympathy  for  the  nuisance  to  myself. 

Wilcox  came  last  night  and  defended  me  from  the 
ghosts  of  this  empty  house;  but  after  Mass  I  let  him  go 
for  the  day,  as  his  fiancee  is  only  here  till  to-morrow 
morning  and  he  may  not  see  her  again  till  after  the  war, 
as  the  family  she  is  with  are  leaving  France  till  the  end 
of  it.  He  is  so  devoted  and  unselfish  I  felt  bound  to  be 
unselfish,  too. 

I  lunched  at  the  Hotel  de  France  on  the  Place  d'Armes, 
quite  close  (next  door!)  to  the  chateau,  and  asked  about 
a  room  there  with  "pension":  and  they  agreed  to  give 
me  a  room  looking  on  the  Place  (it  is  a  huge  empty  space, 
and  quiet)  with  full  pension,  including  wine,  tea,  etc., 
for  eleven  francs  a  day,  (nine  shillings  a  day);  and  that 
is  cheap  for  Versailles.  Then  I  went  to  see  F.  (it  takes 
nearly  an  hour  to  get  there)  and  came  home  promising 
to  go  and  see  him  again  later  in  the  afternoon  to  tell 
him  if  anything  new  had  turned  up. 

I  found  here  the  receiver,  as  he  would  be  called  in 
England,  a  very  civil  man,  who  begged  me  to  stay  on  in 
the  house,  at  least  till  they  have  decided  what  to  do 
with  it:  if  they  let  it,  he  said,  it  should  be  on  condition 
of  my  being  allowed  to  retain  my  apartment  if  I  wished. 
He  gave  me  the  key  of  the  kitchen  and  of  a  small  dining- 
room,  so  that  now  I  can  provide  myself  with  the  little 
meals,  breakfast,  tea,  etc.  He  also  gave  me  access  to 
the    house-linen,    sheets,    towels,    napkins,    etc.,    to    the 


John  AyscougFs  Letters  to  his  Mother       251 

plates,  dishes,  knives  and  forks,  etc.:  all  which  makes  a 
great  difference  to  my  comfort. 

In  the  kitchen,  on  a  loaf,  I  found  a  little  note  from 
Beranek  to  his  wife  (she  had  not  got  back  from  her 
nocturnal  trip  to  Paris  when  he  and  their  daughter  were 
arrested).  It  seemed  to  me  very  sad.  "Dearest  wife: 
Try  not  to  be  broken  down.  Bring  linen.  We  await 
you  with  a  thousand  kisses.  Put  on  your  best  clothes," 
The  last  touch,  because,  poor  things,  they  are  little  likely 
to  see  any  of  their  property  again. 

The  question  of  my  going  to  see  them  has  settled  itself, 
as  they  were  removed  last  night  to  Petit  Pre  in  this 
department  (Seine  et  Oise)  to  be  taken  thence  to  a 
concentration  camp,  where  they  will  probably  remain 
till  the  end  of  the  war,  I  am  told  that  probably  the 
Government  will  "administer"  this  little  property  till 
the  end  of  the  war,  and  then  sell  it  all. 

So  far  as  I  can  discover,  no  definite  charges  are  yet 
brought  against  them,  but  it  doesn't  follow  that  none 
will  be  brought. 

I  think  it  struck  me  with  a  peculiar,  homely  sadness  to 
see  the  meal,  half  cooked  for  yesterday's  luncheon,  about 
the  kitchen  and  that  no  one  would  ever  eat.  I  said 
Mass  for  them  to-day,  innocent  or  guilty,  and  I  am 
bound  to  say  that  all  who  knew  them,  think  them  quite 
innocent.  I  am  glad  it  is  to  be  a  concentration  camp 
only,  and  not  a  regular  prison.  No  soldiers  work  in  the 
garden  now,  but  Beranek's  foreman  (French)  seems 
trying  to  keep  everything  going  all  by  himself, 

I  did  go  back  to  F,  as  I  had  promised,  but  only  stayed 
a  few  minutes.  He  thinks,  as  I  do,  that  as  the  officials 
are  so  civil  I  had  better  stay  on  here,  at  all  events  a  few 
days,  as  I  may  thus  hear  of  something  much  more  suitable 
than  if  I  dashed  off  at  once.  It  would  bore  me  to  pieces 
to  board  in  a  French  family,  and  Michel  de  Missiessy 
says  I  am  quite  right;  I  should  have  to  be  talking,  talking 
all  day  long  to  the  whole  family  and  have  no  liberty. 


252       John  Ayscough' s  Letters  to  his  Mother 

Meanwhile  I  have  my  house  and  garden  to  myself  and 
am  lord  of  all  I  survey. 

8.15  P.M. 

I  interrupted  my  letter  half  an  hour  ago  to  get  ready 
and  eat  my  "dinner:"  a  funny,  but  not  at  all  bad  little 
meal.  I  was  not  inclined  to  go  out  to  get  dinner  at  a 
hotel,  as  the  nearest  is  quite  as  far  from  here  as  you  are 
from  the  village  inn  at  Winterbourne.  This  is  a  residen- 
tial, aristocratic  part  of  Versailles,  far  from  shops,  etc. 
Well,  my  dinner  consisted  of  an  excellent  pot  of  tea, 
bread  and  butter,  pate  de  foie  gras,  marmalade,  and  a 
splendid  pear.  So  you  see  I  did  not  starve.  I  ate  it 
up  here  in  my  own  room,  and  left  the  washing-up  to 
Wilcox  when  he  arrives. 

F,  said  to-day,  "I'm  so  glad  you  had  Wilcox  for  your 
servant  at  this  tiresome  juncture:  he  is  so  steady  and 
prudent,  so  quiet  and  so  fiercely  devoted."  All  of  which 
is  quite  true. 

I  went  over  the  house  to-day  with  the  "receiver" 
("administrator"  in  French)  and  everything  is  just  as  it 
was  at  the  moment  of  the  arrest:  the  beds  unmade,  etc: 
(as  it  all  began  quite  early  in  the  morning).  I  am  sure 
the  Beraneks,  mother  and  daughter,  will  be  specially 
hurt  at  that;  they  are  tidy,  orderly,  domestic  creatures, 
who  do  everything  themselves  because  they  think  servants 
careless  and  slip-shod;  and  they  will  hate  to  think  of 
strangers  seeing  their  good  rooms  all  untidy  and  in  dis- 
order. I  must  say  the  officials  seem  to  leave  everything 
strictly  untouched. 

Of  course  the  mere  untidiness  here  is  nothing  to  the 
awful  havoc  I  saw  in  French  houses,  as  good  and  better 
than  this,  up  at  the  front  where  the  Germans  had  been: 
and  thence  the  certainly  innocent  had  been  driven  out 
homeless  by  these  people's  compatriots.  Voild  la  guerre! 
Even  if  these  folk  in  this  house  were  as  innocent  as  you 
are,  it  is  not  astonishing  if  on  such  as  them  falls  a  trouble 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother       253 

similar  to  and  of  less  cruelty  than  that  which  has  fallen 
on  thousands  and  thousands  of  French  and  Belgian 
homes  and  famihes  up  in  the  huge  district  (seven  whole 
Departments  of  France,  and  nearly  the  whole  of  Belgium) 
where  the  Germans  hold  sway.  One  hard  fate  doesn't 
soften  another,  but  at  least  these  people  have  not  been 
hastily  disturbed:  for  twelve  months  they  have  been  left 
at  peace  in  their  home,  and  none  of  them  has  been 
wounded  or  killed:  nor  can  one  say  that  the  French 
police  have  acted  with  a  harshness  that  had  no  reason. 
For  years  this  family  has  had  this  place  without  seeking 
naturalisation;  when  they  did  go  in  for  it,  it  was  (as  the 
police  urge)  only  when  war  was  certainly  known  by  Ger- 
many and  Austria  to  be  coming. 

You  are  not  to  imagine  that  any  sort  of  real  annoyance 
has  come  to  me  personally  out  of  all  this.  In  England  I 
might  easily  have  been  cited  as  a  witness,  which  would 
have  annoyed  me  extremely:  but  no  idea  of  that  sort 
has  occurred  to  the  French  officials,  who  merely  showed 
every  anxiety  to  save  me  even  the  inevitable  minor 
inconveniences.  I  don't  think  even  F.  quite  twigged 
what  a  position  an  English  officer  "grade"  (of  higher 
rank)  has  in  France  at  present.  I  assured  him  that  no 
inconvenience  would  accrue  to  me  personally:  and  he 
said,  "But  perhaps  as  everything  is  sequestrated  you 
will  have  difficulty  in  removing  your  own  things:  a 
French  lodger  would." 

"Well,  I'm  not  a  French  lodger,"  I  told  him:  and  the 
receiver  simply  laughed  when  I  asked  him. 

"I  hope  for  your  own  comfort  you  will  stay  where 
you  are,"  he  said,  "but  if  you  choose  to  leave  at  any 
hour,  pray  do,  and  pack  up  all  your  things  and  take  them. 
I  am  responsible,  and  I  shall  certainly  not  enter  your 
room  or  treat  it  as  anything  but  your  room  till  you  give 
me  the  key  of  it."  All  this  has  given  you  two  long  letters! 
Some  day  it  may  come  in  useful  in  a  story.  Eh?  But 
not  "while  the  war,"  as  the  soldiers  say.  .  .  .  Good  night. 


254       John  Ayscough^s  Letters  to  his  Mother 

Monday  Nighty  August  2,  191 5 

The  Beraneks  have  not  been  merely  interned  in  a 
concentration  camp,  but  have  been  imprisoned  in  a  for- 
tress, and  that  means  that  there  are  grave  charges  against 
them.  It  seems  they  have  been  under  surveillance  a 
long  time. 

For  the  next  few  days,  at  all  events,  I  shall  remain  in 
this  house,  but  I  have  heard  now  of  several  quarters 
recommended  to  me  and  to-morrow  will  go  and  inspect 
them. 

You  mustn't  picture  me  quite  alone  in  my  garden 
house,  for,  there  are  nearly  fifty  soldiers  in  the  grenier 
adjoining,  a  Marechal  de  Logis  (cavalry  sergeant)  and 
his  wife  in  a  loft,  their  orderly  in  another,  and  the  ever- 
faithful  Wilcox,  who  is  here  all  night  and  nearly  all  day. 

He  complained  of  pain  in  his  jaw  and  I  sent  him  to 
Chavasse,  who  X-rayed  him,  and  discovered  that  the  jaw 
was  broken. 

He  is  quite  excellent  as  an  emergency  servant,  does 
housemaid,  cook  (kitchen-maid,  perhaps,  under  a  Right 
Reverend  chef),  caterer,  etc.,  and  all  very  well.  The 
picnic  is  rather  fun  and  he  thinks  it  "champion." 

Tuesday  Evenings  August  3,  191 5 

Your  letter  of  Saturday  arrived  to-day,  and  the 
beginning  of  it  made  me  laugh  at  you!  You  say  it  was 
a  relief  ("a  great  relief,"  I  beg  your  pardon)  to  get  my 
letter  that  morning  —  why?  because  you  had  no  letter 
on  Thursday,  and  on  Friday  only  a  number  of  postcards 
addressed  by  me  and  accompanied  by  a  little  writing; 
i.e.,  there  was  only  one  day  without  any  word  of  my 
continued  existence,  etc.  That's  the  worst  of  being  a 
first-rate  correspondent:  if  a  day  comes  when  one  is  too 
busy  to  get  in  a  letter,  or  too  lazy  to  write  one,  or  too 
tired,  then  you  feel  it  your  duty  to  be  anxious! 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother       255 

You  have  often  said,  "  Don't  write  when  you  feel  tired 
or  too  busy."  I  take  you  at  your  word  one  day  and 
you  are  anxious.  Please  don't!  Suppose  I  got  an  order 
to  move  to  Havre,  or  Calais,  or  Dieppe  or  Rouen:  such 
orders  (I  expect  none  of  the  kind)  come  suddenly  and  one 
has  to  go  off  at  once.  Then  there  would  have  to  be  an 
interval  of  several  days  without  your  hearing  from  me: 
and  I  should  have  the  uncomfortable  certainty  that  you 
were  tormenting  yourself. 

Here  endeth  the  sermon. 

(On  turning  the  sheet  I  find  it  is  one  on  which  I  had 
begun  writing  some  French  pronunciations  for  Wilcox, 
but  I  can't  begin  again.) 

I  am  flourishing,  and  enjoying  our  picnicky  life  in  our 
Garden  House.  I  have  nothing  new  to  report  about 
the  owners  of  it,  and  hardly  expect  to  hear  any  more. 
Of  course  I  often  think  of  them,  and  of  the  sadness  of  it 
all  for  them,  and  wonder  if  they  will  ever  see  this  home 
of  theirs  again:  but  then  one  cannot  help  feeling  that  if 
they  are  guilty  they  hardly  deserve  any  compassion. 
If  they  are  guilty  they  have  played  a  certain  game,  and  a 
very  bad  one,  and  have  lost  it.  Very  likely  one  never 
will  know  whether  they  were  guilty  or  innocent:  but 
even  if  they  should  be  judged  innocent  I  can't  imagine 
their  ever  caring  to  come  back  here  whence  they  were 
removed  as  prisoners  and  spies.  It's  a  dismal  subject 
and  we  can  change  it.  I  need  only  say  that  for  the 
present  I  shall  stay  on  where  I  am.  The  place  suits  me, 
and  I  am  comfortable,  and  Wilcox  is  in  a  state  of  beatitude 
looking  after  me.  He  cooks  quite  v/ell,  and  is  extremely 
clean  in  all  his  ways. 

I  worked  hard  all  morning  at  the  hospital,  a  new  batch 
of  wounded  having  come  in,  though  a  small  one,  then 
home  to  a  very  good  luncheon  cooked  and  served  by 
Wilcox;  then,  as  I  had  not  to  go  and  see  F.,  a  long  rest, 
reading,  and  .  .  .  and  .  .  .  and  sleeping:  then  out 
again:   home  to  a  rather  late  tea,  and  that's  all. 


256       John  AyscougFs  Letters  to  his  Mother 

My  young  Jew  went  off  to-day  and  was  really  sorry 
to  go:  he  said  often  how  impossible  it  would  be  to  find 
a  better  hospital  in  England,  or  to  have  more  skilled 
attention  and  nursing,  or  kinder.  It  so  seldom  occurs  to 
either  officers  or  men  among  the  wounded  to  see  that 
and  to  express  appreciation  of  it  all.  I  shall  quite  miss 
him  when  going  round  the  wards,  he  was  always  eagerly 
looking  out  for  me,  and  so  cheery  and  bright  in  his  talk. 

It  is  certainly  not  autumnal  here,  though  cool  (with 
frequent  torrential  showers  to-day)  and  though  (being 
weeks  ahead  of  England  as  to  season)  some  autumn 
flowers  and  fruits  are  in  full  swing:  autumn  plums, 
pears:   autumn  anemones,  dahlias,  etc. 

Yesterday  (it  is  now  Wednesday  a.m.)  I  went  and 
looked  at  several  lodgings  —  only  a  single  room  each, 
rather  a  come-down  after  this  Garden  House  all  to 
myself  with  its  big  garden,  etc.  One  lodging  I  rather 
fancied,  kept  by  a  very  decent  elderly  woman  who  in- 
formed me  that  she  was  almost  English  —  because  her 
son  is  cook  to  Queen  Alexandra. 

I  do  not  think  any  of  your  letters  go  astray,  all  reach 
me  safely:  I  wonder  why  you  seem  suddenly  taken  with 
an  idea  that  I  do  not  get  them. 

I  must  explain  that  furnished  lodgings  here  do  not 
supply  any  meals  or  attendance^  so  that  if  I  move  from 
this  house  I  shall  only  move  into  another  house  and  a  less 
attractive  one,  with  no  advantage  that  I  lack  here. 

Wednesday,  7  p.m.,  August  4,  191 5 

I  SIT  down  to  this  table  to  write  without  the  faintest 
idea  whence  anything  to  write  about  is  to  come:  but 
once  St.  Dominic  sat  down,  and  with  him  all  his  friars, 
at  another  table  on  which  there  was  nothing  to  eat,  and 
he  knew  and  they  knew  that  there  was  nothing  to  eat  in 
the  house,  and  not  a  coin  among  them  all  to  buy  any- 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother       257 

thing  with.  But  St.  Dominic  said,  "Little  brothers, 
this  is  our  hour  for  sitting  down  to  table:  so  let  us  keep 
our  rule,  and  so  gain  the  merit  of  obedience,  even  though 
nothing  for  our  mouths  should  come  of  it."  So  he  blest 
the  empty  table  as  though  it  had  been  piled  with  cates, 
and  while  he  blest  it  angels  set  bread  upon  it. 

This  is  my  hour  for  sitting  down  to  my  little  table  to 
write  to  you,  and  though  I  seem  to  have  nothing  in  my 
head,  I  will  trust  that  something  may  slip  into  my  pen 
by  some  good-natured  angel's  suggestion.  Of  that  scene 
in  the  dim  refectory,  with  the  group  of  hungry  and 
obedient  friars,  there  is  a  lovely  fresco,  by  Fra  Bartolomeo, 
I  think.  Only  the  white  habits  of  the  friars,  against  the 
dusk,  are  the  same  in  it;  the  faces  are  all  different,  the 
features,  the  expression;  but  on  them  all  the  same  calm 
and  confident  obedience. 

After  luncheon  to-day  I  went  out  to  F.'s  hospital  to 
see  him,  and  on  the  way  met  Lady  Austin-Lee  coming 
to  visit  our  hospital.  We  talked  for  half  an  hour,  and 
I  need  not  tell  you  how  excited  she  was  by  the  Beranek 
tragedy.  "It  will  all  come  into  a  novel  some  day,"  she 
declared,  "and  I'm  sure  that  as  it  was  to  happen,  you 
feel  a  certain  poignant  satisfaction  in  having  been  so 
near-hand  a  witness  of  it."  .  .  .  She  begs  F.  and  me 
to  lunch  with  her  on  Monday  next.  I  found  him  up  and 
allowed  to  walk  in  the  garden:  and  while  we  were  there 
the  Mother  General  of  the  Order  came  by,  wheeling  a 
heavy  wheel-barrow  full  of  plants,  which  I  insisted  on 
pushing  for  her.  There  was  a  great  deal  of  laughing; 
she  protesting  that  it  was  scandalous  for  me  to  wheel 
barrows,  and  I  protesting  that  it  was  much  worse  that 
she  should  —  of  course  I  appealed  to  the  nuns,  who  didn't 
know  what  to  decide,  and  could  only  laugh.  She  said, 
"I  was  tired  of  correspondence  and  work  indoors,  and 
thought  it  would  rest  me  to  garden  a  little."  I  told  her 
how  much  you  would  sympathize  with  her,  and  she  and 


258       John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

her  nuns  soon  went  on  with  their  planting.  F.  said, 
"They  are  such  cheery  creatures,  and  they  chafF  each 
other  all  day." 

He  told  me  he  had  sent  you  a  little  poupee,  which  he 
ordered  from  his  home,  dressed  in  the  peasant  costume 
of  the  Doubs.  He  was  in  excellent  spirits,  and  evidently 
pleased  to  get  Lady  Austin-Lee's  invitation  for  Monday, 
by  which  time  he  will  be  allowed  to  go  out.  They  have 
nobbled  me  to  pontificate  High  Mass  on  the  Feast  of 
the  Assumption  in  the  church  always  called  "La  Paroisse" 
because  it  is  the  parish  church  of  the  chateau.  Louis 
XIV  built  it,  and  Louis  XV  made  his  First  Communion 
in  it.  I  tried  to  get  out  of  this  function,  and  hypo- 
critically suggested  that  the  Bishop  might  not  like  it. 
"Oh,  but  he  is  delighted  at  the  idea." 

I  then  said  that  some  of  the  necessary  paraphernalia 
were  in  England,  but  they  said,  "Oh,  we  have  them  all." 
The  mitre  will  probably  be  that  of  some  old  bishop  of 
two  centuries  ago  with  a  head  as  big  as  a  pumpkin,  out 
of  which  only  my  ankles  will  be  visible  to  the  public. 

I  must  stop:  it  is  so  "darksome"  (as  the  old-fashioned 
Catholics  still  say)  that  I  cannot  see  to  write,  and  only 
7.50  P.M. 

Many  thanks  for  the  pretty  picture  of  Ellesmere. 

With  best  love  to  Christie  and  Alice. 

Friday  a.m.,  August  6,  191 5 

I  WENT  to  Paris  yesterday  to  buy  some  special  bandages 
for  F.,  was  away  from  midday  till  evening,  and  made  a 
pilgrimage  to  the  immense  votive  Basilica  of  the  Sacred 
Heart  on  the  heights  of  Montmartre.  It  is  really  very 
fine,  and  the  position,  towering  over  Paris  (one  has  to 
go  up  in  a  funicular  railway),  is  superb:  the  view  from 
the  portico  of  the  church  quite  magnificent.  I  enclose 
two  cards,  one  of  a  little  old  building  which  was  all  there 
was  on  the  summit  of  Montmartre  till  1866,  and  one  of 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother       259 

the  basilica.  The  other  photographs  are  all  of  Notre 
Dame  de  Paris,  and  possibly  you  have  them  all. 

It  kept  fine  all  day,  and  only  just  as  I  got  home  did  it 
begin  to  rain  —  in  a  deluge,  and  went  on  all  night. 

Before  starting  for  Paris  I  went  to  look  at  two  lodgings, 
in  case  I  cannot  stay  on  here:  they  each  consisted  of  a 
single  room,  a  good  room,  well  furnished  as  a  bedroom, 
and  each  cost  (without  any  food,  or  attendance)  ninety 
francs  a  month,  i.i?.,  three  francs  a  day:  one's  food  at  an 
hotel  or  restaurant  would  cost  ten  francs,  at  least,  a  day, 
and  there  would  be  the  bother  of  going  out  for  every 
meal,  no  matter  what  the  weather.  I  shall  certainly 
stay  on  here  if  I  can:  without  Wilcox  it  would  be  im- 
possible, but  he  is  quite  excellent,  and  I  am  in  great 
comfort  in  his  care. 

Now  I'm  off  to  hospital. 

Friday  Evening,  August  6,  191 5 

Your  letter  of  Tuesday  arrived  to-day,  enclosing  Mr. 
Maurice  Egan's  card.  He  is  one  of  the  most  admired 
Catholic  writers,  and  he  is  also  American  Ambassador 
to  the  Court  of  Denmark.  Besides  all  which  he  is  really 
a  thoroughly  nice  man,  and  we  have  had  a  corresponding 
acquaintance  for  a  good  many  years.  Sir  Rennell  Rodd, 
our  own  Ambassador  in  Rome,  was  his  colleague,  as 
British  Minister  at  Copenhagen,  and  has  often  told  me 
how  charming  a  man  Mr.  Maurice  Egan  is.  Do  you 
remember  some  years  ago  Mr.  Egan  inviting  me  to  the 
marriage  of  his  daughter? 

It  has  been  very  showery  all  day,  and  rather  stuffy. 
I  went  to  see  F.,  and  coming  back  it  rained  in  torrents. 

Since  I  began  writing  a  lovely  sunset  has  turned  all 
the  sky  to  fiery  snow-mountains.  The  rain  is  gone  and 
it  looks  like  the  promise  of  a  fine  day  to-morrow. 

F.  read  aloud  English  sentences  to  me,  and  it  was  very 
funny.     They  represented    a    conversation    between    an 


26o       John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

English  traveller  and  a  French  railway-porter:  and  I 
think  this  time  some  of  the  funniness  was  intentional  — 
the  composer  of  the  phrase-book  meaning  to  laugh 
gently  at  John  Bull.  This  sort  of  thing  (E.  T.  — 
English  Traveller.     R.  P.  —  Railway  Porter) : 

E.  T.     Porter!  Porter!     Hi,  you!     Come  here! 

R.  P.     Monsieur? 

E.  T.  Put  this  luggage  in  a  first-class  carriage.  Quick 
now! 

R.  P.     All  this!     How  many  persons  are  you.f* 

E.  T.  How  many  persons?  I  am  one  person,  can't 
you  see? 

R.  P.  But  one  person  cannot  have  all  those  luggages 
in  the  carriage  wiz  'eem. 

E.  T.  "All  that  luggage!"  Why,  there  are  only  four 
valises,  eight  small  parcels,  two  guns,  three 
fishing-rods,  two  rolls  of  rugs,  and  two  of 
overcoats  and  waterproofs,  a  dressing-case, 
a  dispatch-box,  a  lunch-basket,  and  this 
bundle  of  books  and  newspapers.  Put  them 
in  at  once. 

R,  P.  But,  Monsieur,  there  will  be  no  rooms  for  the 
luggage  of  the  other  passengers, 

E.  T.  That  doesn't  matter,  for  I  prefer  a  carriage  all 
myself. 

R.  P.  There  are  ten  places  in  the  carriage;  has  Mon- 
sieur taken  ten  places,  then? 

E.  T.  Head  block!  Put  them  in,  while  you  ask 
questions  the  train  will  go. 

R.  P.     Has  Monsieur  taken  'is  tee-ket? 

E.  T.     Plenty  of  time.     Put  them  in. 

(The  porter  puts  them  in) 

Railway  Engine:   St-st-st-  Jub-jub.  .  .  . 

R.  P.  Ze  train  go:  Monsieur  will  not  be  to  can  go, 
having  no  tee-ket.  .  .  . 

E.  T.     Quick!  Quick!     Let  me  jump  in! 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother       261 

R.  P.     It  is  forbade  to  get  in  while  the  train  moves,  it 
is  forbidden  to  get  in  wizout  tee-ket.   ,   .  . 

E.  T.     (Furiously)    There  .  .  .  the    train    has    gone, 

and      my      luggage.  .  .  .   Damn!     Oh      yes! 
Damfi!     Quite  so.     Very  much,  Damn! 

F.  said  to  me,  "It  is  very  bad.  In  England  you  are 
always  divorcing  yourselves." 

I  had  a  letter  from  Beranek  to-day,  which  I  shall 
answer  very  cautiously.  He  says,  "It  is  hard  to  be 
dishonoured  after  a  harmless  life:  but  our  sorrow  and 
shame  are  in  His  hands,  who  decides  what  each  of  us 
has  to  bear." 

Wilcox  is  often  entertaining  in  a  dry  way,  but  he 
doesn't  set  up  for  a  wit,  and  says  uncommonly  little  at 
all.  He  is  shy  and  reserved,  and  when  he  is  funny  it  is 
because  something  comes  out  which  shows  what  a  shrewd, 
watchful  observer  he  is.  He  is  devoted  to  F.  and  says, 
"The  Baron  gives  me  lumps  in  my  throat  whenever  I 
see  him.  So  young,  and  just  hopping  lame  about  like  a 
bird  with  its  leg  and  wing  broke!  He's  a  toff  if  you 
like,  and  always  so  nice  and  so  gentle,  with  a  kind  word 
for  a  chap  like  me.  In  our  regiment  there  are  real  officer 
toffs,  and  second-hand  toffs  —  you  can  always  tell.  But 
Baron  C.'s  the  best  I  ever  saw." 

Saturday  Evening,  August  7,  191 5 

I  PERCEIVE  that  I  have,  during  the  last  day  or  two, 
been  dating  my  letters  (as  to  the  day  of  the  month)  a 
day,  in  arrear.  ,   .  . 

To  begin  with  the  weather,  and  so  prove  myself  still 
English,  it  has  been  stuffy  all  day,  and  is  more  stuffy 
now  than  ever;  I  expect  we  shall  have  thunder,  but  the 
thunder-storms  never  come  to  much  here,  nor  do  they 
cool  the  air  much. 

I  saw  the  administrator  (receiver)  this  morning  and 
have  agreed  to  stay  on  here  for  the  present:    they  make 


262       John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

me  pay  a  very  low  rent,  whereas  all  the  furnished  lodgings 
I  have  looked  at  were  dearer  than  I  could  afford,  and 
none  of  them  provided  meals  indoors.  So  Wilcox  and 
I  will  reign  on  here,  and  it  is  the  arrangement  I  greatly 
prefer.  After  this  airy  and  open  place,  with  the  big, 
cheerful  garden,  all  the  lodgings  in  streets  seemed  so 
stuffy  and  dark,  gloomy  and  airless.  Besides,  I  am  near 
the  hospital  and  near  the  convent  where  I  say  Mass  when 
I  do  not  say  it  in  hospital;  and,  finally,  I  am  hke  a  cat 
that  hates  to  move.  And  here  I  do  not  have  to  go  out 
for  any  meal,  as  I  should  in  any  of  the  lodgings :  for  none 
of  them  give  board.  In  wet  weather  especially  that 
going  out  for  every  meal  would  be  a  terrible  nuisance. 

I  had  your  two  letters  dated  Tuesday,  this  morning, 
and  I  am  so  grieved  to  find  that  my  news  of  the  upset 
here  had  upset  you,  too.  It  is  quite  all  right  now,  and  I 
have  had  no  discomfort  even,  largely  because  Wilcox  is 
so  sensible,  systematic,  devoted,  and  energetic. 

I  hope  that  long  before  now  my  letters  will  have  shown 
you  that  nothing  that  has  happened  here  caused  me  any 
personal  discomfort.  For  the  Beraneks  it  has  been  very 
sad,  if  they  be  quite  innocent  as  they  may  so  well  be. 
It  is  not  true  that  they  are  in  a  fortress,  though  the  news 
came  from  the  General  in  command  here;  they  are  only 
in  an  "Asile  of  Detention":  and  the  fact  of  their  being 
removed  there  does  not  in  itself  imply  any  definite 
accusation,  only  "suspicion."  It  is  useless  arguing  out 
all  that,  as  one  can  really  know  nothing. 

I  am  sending  you  to-day  under  another  cover  a  series 
of  excellent  views  of  Plas  Newydd,  the  house  of  the  Ladies 
of  Llangollen,  that  a  Welsh  bookseller  sent  me.  It  is 
extraordinary  to  myself  to  see  how  perfectly  I  remember 
the  place,  though  it  is  fully  fifty-two  years  since  I  saw  it, 
and  perhaps  only  saw  the  inside  once.  The  man  who  sent 
them  is  an  admirer  of  John  Ayscough  and  knows  he  was 
once  living  at  Llangollen. 

I   am  rather  pestered  lately  with   French  ladies  who 


Joh7i  AyscougJfs  Letters  to  his  Mother       263 

want  to  make  me  a  sort  of  governess  and  boarding-house 
agent,  and  I  fancy  they  are  all  sent  by  a  nun  at  the 
convent. 

.  .  ."It  is  to-morrow  morning"  (as  Mr.  Pecksniff 
said,  putting  his  head  out  of  the  coach  window!),  i.e.y 
6  A.M.,  Sunday,  and  I  have  written  the  last  half  of  this 
in  my  pyjamas  before  beginning  to  dress:  which  I  must 
now  do. 

As  you  will  have  perceived  for  yourself,  I  have  nothing 
to  say,  and  have  not  been  able  successfully  to  disguise 
the  fact. 

Monday  Night,  August  9,  191 5 

I  WENT  with  F.  to  Paris  to-day  to  lunch  with  Lady 
Austin-Lee.  Our  party  consisted  of  herself  and  us,  and 
Comtesse  d'Osmoy  (pronounced  Daumois),  whom  we 
both  had  met  there  before.  Sir  Henry  was  away  in  his 
island  of  Jethou,  opposite  the  harbour  of  Guernsey. 
Madame  d'Osmoy  is  charming,  an  American,  though  a 
very  English  one. 

We  were  all  very  pleasant  together  and  had  an  ex- 
cellent luncheon.  Afterwards  we  talked  and  then  Lady 
Austin-Lee  sang.  She  sings  really  beautifully,  and  has 
been  accustomed  to  sing  with  great  masters  of  music. 

When  we  were  waiting  for  the  tram  to  come  back  to 
Versailles,  a  young  woman  tried  to  get  into  another 
tram  close  to  us  while  it  was  moving  and  she  fell.  There 
was  a  cry  of  horror  from  the  people,  and  I  felt  quite  sick, 
it  seemed  so  certain  she  would  be  killed  before  our  eyes.- 
The  tram  caught  her  dress,  and  dragged  her,  and  between 
the  tram  and  the  rather  high  kerb  there  were  only  a  few 
inches  of  room:  but  they  managed  to  stop  the  huge  tram 
almost  instantly,  and  the  woman  was  not  hurt  at  all, 
only  frightened.  I  had  dashed  forward  to  help,  but  all 
I  had  to  do  was  to  pick  up  her  combs  and  her  little 
parcels.  It  was  a  ghastly  moment,  but  no  harm  came 
of  it. 


264       John  Ayscough^s  Letters  to  his  Mother 

Tuesday  a.m. 

It  lightened  all  night,  and  there  were  growls  ot  distant 
thunder,  but  it  has  done  very  little  toward  cooling  the 
air,  or  clearing  the  atmosphere. 

I  hope  you  won't  have  it  very  hot,  as  it  knocks  you 
up  too,  though  you  are  apt  to  forget  that  the  moment 
the  heat  has  changed  into  rain  and  a  cloudy  sky. 

I  FORGOT  to  put  a  date  —  it  is  Wednesday  evenings 
August  nth,  and  it  is  also  6.45  p.m.  I  daresay  you  are 
sitting  out  in  the  garden,  for  I  hope  it  is  a  fine  evening 
with  you  as  it  is  here:  fine  and  not  hot,  fresh  and  not 
muggy. 

As  I  came  in  just  now  there  was  a  very  big  butterfly 
hovering  over  the  geraniums,  bufF  (not  yellow  or  sulphur- 
colour),  almost  a  pale  brown,  with  black  edges  to  the 
wings,  and  black  bars  and  splotches.  He  seemed  very 
tame  and  almost  let  me  catch  him  with  my  fingers  as  he 
sat  on  a  flower. 

I  went  to  see  F.  after  lunch  (all  morning  I  was  in 
hospital,  doing  a  little  work),  but  he  was  out,  so  I  came 
back  into  the  town  and  went  to  see  Madame  de  Missiessy, 
whom  I  found  at  home;  I  sat  for  a  long  time  talking  to 
her  and  her  daughter,  in  English,  and  they  were  both 
very  homey  and  pleasant. 

The  Comtesse  said,  "You  must  come  and  dine  again," 
and  I  answered,  "Very  well;  but  I  Hke  talking  like  this: 
one  does  not  need  a  plate  to  talk  over,"  and  she  seemed 
to  like  that,  and  be  pleased  that  I  shouldn't  be  the  sort 
of  man  who  will  only  come  when  you  feed  him. 

They  have  lived  in  Versailles  about  a  year,  before 
which  they  lived  in  Paris,  and  left  it  because  she  says 
that  till  the  war  came,  everyone  was  living  so  high,  and 
spending  so  much,  she  could  not  keep  up  with  it.  Before 
the  Paris  time  they  lived  in  Savoy  (not  Italian  Savoy, 
but  French  Savoy,  up  among  the  mountains  near  Aix) 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother       265 

in  a  chateau  lent  to  them  by  her  husband's  brother: 
there  they  Hved  a  very  simple  country  life  ("like  peasants," 
she  said),  all  very  happy  together,  making  their  pleasures 
consist  of  country  things.  And  now  they  do  not  care 
for  Versailles,  and  do  not  go  in  for  its  society,  only  know- 
ing a  few  old  and  tried  friends  settled  here.  She  says  I 
am  very  wise  in  not  letting  myself  be  dragged  into  Ver- 
sailles "society,"  which  is  all  idleness  and  gossip.  I 
don't  pretend  to  be  a  miracle  of  penetration,  but  I  do 
think  that  I  have  certain  ''protective  instincts"  (as  some 
animals  have)  that  warn  me  what  to  avoid.  No  one 
told  me  anything  about  Versailles  society,  but  I  "twigged" 
it,  from  the  very  look  of  the  place. 

Even  the  Bishop,  who  is  really  a  great  man,  is  not  well 
liked  by  the  Versailles  "society":  simply  because  he  is 
large-minded  and  liberal  in  his  ideas,  and  also  because 
he  is  a  -people's  bishop.  The  diocese  is  enormous  and 
hugely  populated,  with  a  vast  working-class  population, 
and  he  has  neither  time  nor  inclination  for  the  fuss  of 
"society."  He  is  sure  to  be  promoted  to  an  Arch- 
bishopric, and  probably  to  the  Cardinalate;  the  Church 
approves  him,  but  the  "world"  —  the  little  tin-pot 
world  of  Versailles  —  does  not. 

At  the  de  Missiessy's  this  afternoon  I  imitated  Monsieur 
G.  limping  up  to  nab  me  for  luncheon:  and  I  made  such 
an  ugly  face  that  their  huge  dog  leapt  up  with  a  howl  and 
nearly  swallowed  me,  grimace  and  all.  He  is  so  enor- 
mous that  when  I  saw  him  first  I  thought  he  was  a  sofa 
with  a  woolly  rug  thrown  over  him. 

As  I  was  going  to  the  de  Missiessy's,  I  saw  a  small 
crowd  outside  a  much  smaller  police-station,  and  one 
rather  large  man  being  hauled  into  it  by  the  gendarmes. 
Some  amiable  women  got  him  in  by  strong  pushes  against 
the  broad  base  of  his  back.  I  asked  what  he  had  done. 
"Oh,"  said  an  intensely  interested  boy,  "he  tapped  on  a 
soldier."     I  suppose  he  tapped  too  hard. 

I  remember  the  old  Bishop  of  Amycla  telling  me  of  an 


266       John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

Irish  soldier  who  was  being  tried  for  manslaughter. 
He  said,  "Well,  I  was  coming  back  to  camp  in  the  moon- 
light, and  I  saw  a  head  on  the  ground,  sticking  out  of  a 
tent,  and  one  always  kicks  things  lying  about  like  that, 
so  /  did:  and  it  killed  the  chap  the  head  belonged  to." 
The  jury  acquitted  him,  saying  that  he  merely  yielded 
to  a  natural  impulse.  But  I  doubt  if  a  French  jury  will 
think  it  a  natural  impulse  to  tap  on  a  soldier. 

It  is  only  seven-forty,  and  I  have  had  to  light  my  lamp; 
even  in  the  window  it  had  grown  too  dark  to  write. 
Wilcox  has  been  writing  to  his  mother  downstairs,  and 
has  just  brought  up  his  letter  for  me  to  read.  At  first 
he  used  to  bring  me  his  love-letters  to  read  too,  and 
excellent  they  were,  full  of  wonderful,  manly  and  pure 
love  and  devotion.  But  to  read  them  even  at  his  desire 
seemed  to  me  like  eavesdropping,  and  I  told  him  no  one 
should  see  them  before  the  girl  to  whom  they  were  written. 
I  think  I  must  be  growing  like  a  spider  who  spins  long 
Hues  out  of  his  own  inside,  for  out  of  mine,  with  nothing 
like  news  to  help  me,  I  am  daily  spinning  you  lines  which 
reach  from  Versailles  to  Winterbourne. 

I'm  so  glad  you  approve  of  our  staying  on  in  our 
Garden  House.  I  was  half-afraid  you  would  think  I 
should  be  gloomy  here.  I  have  two  bedrooms,  a  kitchen, 
and  a  nice  little  dining-room,  opening  into  the  private 
garden  (not  the  nursery-garden),  with  plate,  china,  glass, 
house-linen,  etc.,  and  I  pay  ^  what?  Well,  I  bargained: 
I  pointed  out  that  an  English  Colonel  and  his  soldier- 
servant  made  excellent  care-takers,  and  the  administrator 
quite  agreed.  "Would  one  franc  fifty  a  day  be  too 
much.^"  he  asked,  and  I  said,  "Not  at  all  too  much." 
One  shilling  threepence  a  day!  F.  was  quite  awe-struck 
by  my  capacity  for  affairs  when  I  told  him.  He  never 
dreams  of  enquiring  the  price  before  buying  anything; 
and  I  told  him  I  couldn't  afford  to  be  so  lordly. 

Comtesse  d'Osmoy  was  asking  for  you  yesterday. 
"I    shall    always    remember    her    miniature,"    she    said. 


John  Ayscough^s  Letters  to  his  Mother       267 

And  every  time  I  look  up  there  it  is,  hanging  a  foot  from 
my  nose  —  the  end  of  my  nose,  about  three  feet  from  my 
face. 

Comtesse  de  Missiessy  said  to-day,  "I  always  say 
some  little  prayers  now,  every  day,  for  your  dear  mother, 
and  beg  Our  Lord  to  keep  her  well  and  full  of  courage 
till  she  can  have  you  with  her  again.  My  prayers  are 
very  little  prayers,  but  I  have  been  only  a  mother  since 
my  dear,  dear  husband  left  me,  and  I  know  what  it 
must  be." 

"So  does  He,  dear  Madame." 

*'Ah,  yes.     That  is  what  must  keep  you  both  brave." 

I  told  her  how  poor  we  were  when  you  were  left  with 
your  three  children  to  bring  up,  and  how  happy  you  made 
our  childhood,  so  that  it  never  occurred  to  us  to  think 
with  envy  of  rich  children.  "In  fact,"  I  said,  "I  don't 
know  if  rich  children  ever  do  enjoy  things  as  poor  gentry's 
children  do." 

"I'm  sure  they  don't,"  said  she,  "they  are  blase  and 
peevish:  and  they  have  so  many  expensive  things  to  do 
that  they  do  not  care  for  any  of  them." 

You  see  we  are  always  talking  of  you.  Now  I  will 
stop. 

Friday  Evening.,  6.30  p.m.,  August  13,  191 5 

Winifred  Gater  sent  me  two  excellent  little  photo- 
graphs of  you,  in  your  bath-chair,  and  I  have  written  at 
once  to  thank  her:  it  was  a  very  kind  thought  of  hers, 
and  I  was  really  grateful.  The  oblong-shaped  portrait 
has  the  expression  you  assume  when  I  have  just  told 
you  some  amazing  fable,  and  the  other,  the  upright- 
shaped  one,  has  the  other  expression  that  you  put  on 
when  you  have  done  something  bad  (like  walking  off  to 
the  garden  alone)  and  don't  intend  to  repent. 

This  afternoon  I  tried  to  go  for  a  walk,  and  had  just 
got  into  the  gardens  of  the  chateau  when  it  came  down 
a  pelt,  and  I  had  to  trot  home:    several  kindly  French 


268       John  Ayscougifs  Letters  to  his  Mother 

women  dashed  out  of  shops  as  I  came  through  the  Rue 
de  la  Paroisse  to  offer  umbrellas,  but  in  uniform  one 
may  not  carry  umbrellas  as  I  had  to  explain. 

All  the  flat  parterres  near  the  Orangerie,  under  the 
palace  windows,  are  filled  with  calceolarias,  and  they 
look  like  a  vast  yellow  carpet,  of  geometric  pattern,  with 
dark  green  borders  (box). 

I  myself,  on  my  way  home,  looked  like  a  dripping 
statue  escaped  from  one  of  the  fountains:  but  I  changed 
at  once,  and  was  not  wet  inside  (I  don't  mean  inside  my 
body,  but  inside  my  tunic). 

It  is  quite  fine  again  now,  with  a  pretty  parti-coloured 
sky. 

A  little  French  soldier  whom  I  knew  at  the  front, 
and  to  whom  I  have  sent  parcels  since,  came  to  see  me 
the  other  day  —  straight  from  the  front,  on  his  way 
home  —  and  he  was  so  fearfully  smelly,  poor  fellow,  that 
when  he  had  gone,  Wilcox  (who  is  the  cleanest  man  I 
ever  knew)  said,  "Anyone  would  think  one  of  the  trenches 
had  been  to  call  in  this  room."  I  must  say  I  had  suflFered 
considerably  myself.  It  was  a  hot  afternoon  and  the 
soldier  had  walked  fast  in  his  huge,  heavy  capote.  All 
the  same,  it  was  nice  of  him  to  come. 

Mondajy  9.45  a.m.,  August  16,  1915 

I  WROTE  you  a  very  meagre  and  short  letter  on  Saturday 
night,  and  even  that  poor  apology  for  a  letter  never  went 
by  yesterday's  post  —  I  was  so  rushed  all  day  that  I 
overlooked  it. 

I  got  up  at  five  and  said  my  "office,"  dressed,  etc.; 
at  7.30  said  Mass  at  the  hospital,  at  ten  pontificated  the 
High  Mass  at  Notre  Dame,  ran  home  to  do  some  business, 
lunched  with  the  clergy  at  twelve,  pontificated  Vespers 
(followed  by  Procession,  Benediction,  etc.)  at  two,  had 
some  tea,  and  then  held  evening  service  at  the  hospital. 

I  got  on  very  well  at  my  two  functions,  and  the  church 


John  Ayscough^s  Letters  to  his  Mother       269 

was  packed  each  time  —  between  two  and  three  thousand 
persons.  It  was  terribly  hot  in  church,  and  the  vest- 
ments very  heavy,  but  I  did  not  feel  it  in  the  least,  a  sign 
of  my  being  in  excellent  health.  I  had  dreaded  one  of 
my  awful  neuralgia  attacks,  but  had  not  a  touch  of  it. 
The  luncheon  party  did  not  bore  me  at  all  either;  there 
were  only  three  other  priests,  and  they  were  nice. 

I  saw  F.  after  Mass,  and  Lady  Austin-Lee  has  again 
invited  us  both  to  lunch  with  her  on  Wednesday:  on 
Thursday  she  is  going  on  a  short  visit  to  Normandy  to 
stay  with  Comtesse  d'Osmoy. 

I  am  delighted  that  Alice  has  not  actually  fled  yet, 
though  alas!  her  departure  seems  close  at  hand.  I  know 
how  much  you  will  miss  her,  and  I  shall  not  be  half  so 
easy  in  my  mind  about  you  now.  O  dear!  I  wish  I  could 
get  home! 

Well,  my  dear,  I  must  go  and  work  at  the  hospital. 

Monday  Evening,  7.15,  August  16,  191 5 

Though  it  is  only  a  quarter-past  seven,  it  is  already 
nearly  too  dark  to  write  at  my  window:  and  in  a  few 
minutes  I  shall  have  to  drag  my  table  back  into  the 
room  and  light  my  lamp. 

This  morning  was  almost  cold,  but  by  midday  it  had 
grown  hot  again;   still,  it  is  autumny. 

F.  was  to  have  come  this  afternoon  at  2.30,  but  didn't 
turn  up:  I  waited  in  for  him,  and  wrote  duty  letters  — 
twelve  of  them  to  English,  French,  and  American  cor- 
respondents. So,  though  I  was  sorry  not  to  get  a  walk, 
I  did  a  lot  of  business.  I  did  a  long  morning  in  the 
hospital,  and  felt  I  deserved  a  walk  after  luncheon  to 
blow  away  cobwebs  and  homesickness! 

(I  have  already  had  to  desert  my  window  and  light 
up  for  the  evening.)  It  was  a  year  yesterday  since  I  left 
home  to  come  out  to  this  rotten  old  war:  and  in  my 
innocent  soul  I  thought  then  the  war  would  all  be  over  in 


270       John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

a  few  weeks!  Still,  dear,  one  cannot  help  reflecting  how 
much  God  has  done  for  us:  no  harm  befell  me  up  at  the 
front:  and  I  am  well  and  comfortable:  and  He  has 
preserved  you  wonderfully  in  health  and  on  the  whole 
in  good  spirits.  Times  of  low  spirits  must  come  occa- 
sionally; nevertheless,  on  the  whole  your  courage  and 
trust  have  sustained  you,  and  for  that  I  am  unspeakably 
grateful. 

I  am  so  glad  you  liked  the  little  veil;  it  seemed  to  me 
pretty,  and  I  am  sure  you  will  turn  it  to  some  use. 

I  told  you  that  I  got  on  all  right  at  the  two  functions 
yesterday,  which  I  had  quite  dreaded.  The  mitre  was 
enormous  and  would  have  been  a  mask,  only  the  Master 
of  Ceremonies  poised  it  on  my  ears:  at  Vespers  they  had 
stitched  it  up,  and  it  fitted  beautifully.  The  music  was 
fine,  but  too  grandiose  and  florid  for  my  taste;  only  the 
professional  singers  took  any  part. 

However,  they  were  all  pleased  and  I  was  much  thanked. 

I  think  you  rather  take  it  for  granted  that  the  Beraneks 
were  guilty:  I  don't  at  all;  I  merely  think  that  there 
was  enough  to  justify  the  police  in  taking  action,  i.e.,  that 
they  were  not  bullying,  but  merely  taking  precaution  to 
be  on  the  safe  side.  I  find  it  really  was  because  of  the 
girl's  journey  to  Switzerland  that  the  arrest  took  place: 
the  police  went  with  her,  stayed  near  her  all  the  time  in 
Swit(;zerland,  came  back  with  her,  and  on  the  next  day 
arrested  all  the  family.  She  was  with  Germans  the 
whole  time  —  but  then  it  was  to  hand  over  the  young 
cousin  to  her  parents,  and  it  was  the  police  themselves 
who  gave  the  order  that  the  little  girl  should  not  remain 
here:  so  the  Beraneks  had  to  send  her  away,  and  they 
could  hardly  send  a  child  of  thirteen  to  Switzerland,  in 
war  time,  all  by  herself.  What  seemed  to  me  so  im- 
prudent was  Mile.  Beranek  staying  on  in  Switzerland  a 
fortnight,  as  that  could  not  be  necessary. 

One  thing  very  much  against  the  spy  theory  is  this: 
from  the  beginning  /  have  had  one  key  of  the  letter  box. 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother       271 

and  I  can't  imagine  a  spy  family  risking  any  dangerous 
letters  falling  into  a  stranger's  hands;  and  as  I  opened 
the  box,  which  is  at  the  gate,  every  time  I  passed  in  or 
out,  they  must  have  known  that  no  letter  of  theirs  would 
be  likely  to  escape  my  notice. 

Tuesday  a.m. 

It  is  a  regular  white  fog,  with  an  autumn  chill  in  the 
air  and  yet  no  doubt  by  midday  it  will  be  ever  so  hot. 

I  hear  the  Russians  are  doing  very  well,  also  that  we 
are,  and  also  that  immense  numbers  of  fresh  English 
troops  have  come  over  to  reinforce  our  line;  so  we  are 
evidently  going  to  do  something  interesting. 

Since  I  wrote  the  above  I  have  said  Mass  and  had 
breakfast,  and  the  fog  has  all  gone  and  it  is  a  morning  of 
brilliant  sun  and  blue  sky. 

And  now  this  snappy  and  disjointed  letter  must  be 
shut  up:  I  wish  I  could  shut  myself  inside  it,  and  go 
with  it. 

Courage  and  patience!  I  shall  be  going  one  of  these 
days. 

Tuesday  Eveningy  August  17,  191 5 

Here  I  am  again  at  my  window,  beginning  a  letter  to 
you,  this  time  early  enough  to  have  some  hopes  of  finish- 
ing it  before  it  gets  too  dark  to  write  without  the  lamp. 
What  to  tell  you  is  another  matter!  I  did  a  good  morn- 
ing's work  in  hospital,  seeing  a  number  of  new  arrivals, 
almost  all  of  the  Leinster  Regiment,  and  hardly  any  of 
them  very  severely  wounded.  They  all  seemed  very 
glad  to  see  me,  and  were  glad  to  get  prayer-books,  rosaries, 
scapulars,  etc. 

I  meant  to  go  for  a  walk  in  the  park  after  luncheon, 
but  only  read  instead. 

I  got  your  letter  of  Saturday  this  morning,  and  am 
glad  you  liked  mine  of  Wednesday,  and  that  you  were 


272       John  Ayscough^s  Letters  to  his  Mother 

amused  by  it;  also  that  you  think  the  de  Missiessy  family 
sounds  nice.  They  are  nice,  very  like  an  English  family 
of  good  class.  They  asked  F.  to  go  and  see  them,  but  he 
won't:  he  has  to  admit  that  Comtesse  de  M.  is  charming, 
but  for  some  reason  he  can't  abide  Mademoiselle,  and  I 
perceive  that  it  is  mutual.  However,  I  don't  take  any 
notice.  I  wish  he  would  go,  because  he  might  pick  up 
some  nice  young  men  friends  there;  all  the  young  men  I 
met  there  are  of  good  class  and  nice.  Oddly  enough,  I 
have  never  met  any  man  friend  of  his  who  was  a  gentle- 
man or  nearly  one:  and  I  think  he  likes  having  inferior 
men-comrades,  as  they  toady  to  him:  and  all  the  while 
he  is  a  bit  ashamed  of  them,  for  if  any  of  them  come 
to  see  him  when  I  am  with  him,  he  always  seems  relieved 
and  glad  that  I  get  up  to  come  away  as  soon  as  I  can  do 
so  without  rudeness.  Of  each  of  these  friends  he  has 
invariably  said  (afterwards),  "He  is  a  very  good  fellow, 
but  not  a  gentleman." 

"Oh,"  say  I,  "you  need  not  tell  me  that:  though  I  am 
English  I  know  a  French  gentleman  very  well  when  I 
see  him." 

I  fancy  the  big  school  he  was  at  was  a  commercial 
school,  and  that  he  had  never  mixed  with  young  fellows 
of  good  class;  and  so  now  he  is  shy  of  them.  His  absolute 
dislike  of  visiting  places  and  things  of  historic  interest  is 
extremely  unlike  the  ordinary  taste  of  Frenchmen  of 
position,  who  are  generally  particularly  fond  of  seeing 
and  talking  about  such  things.  But  it  is  no  use  com- 
plaining because  one's  friend  has  not  one's  own  tastes. 
I  always  knew  we  had  scarcely  a  taste  in  common:  he 
hates  reading,  and  has  no  appreciation  of  any  art  except 
music:  pictures  are  quite  uninteresting  and  meaningless 
to  him.  We  have  had  heaps  of  battles  about  this  — 
for  when  I  have  been  with  him  in  Paris  I  wanted  to  take 
the  opportunity  of  seeing  the  many  things  of  historic 
and  artistic  interest  there,  but  he  simply  wont  (and  you 
know  our  young  gentleman  can  be  obstinate)  and  never 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother       273 

cares  for  anything  except  shopping  or  sauntering  along 
the  crowded  boulevards. 

I  only  grumble  to  you,  who  know  how  fond  I  am  of 
him;  but  really  I  have  sacrificed  countless  hours  to  his 
tastes — or  lack  of  tastes  —  to  please  and  cheer  him, 
when  I  personally  detested  this  idle  waste  of  time.  He 
has  very  good  brains  and  it  often  fills  me  with  regret  to 
see  how  he  lets  them  run  to  seed.  I  wish  he  was  well 
enough  to  work,  but  he  is  not,  and  it's  no  use  thinking  of 
it.  I  fancy  only  the  higher  aristocracy  do  read  in  France, 
among  the  others  there  are  no  books;  and  I  noted  often 
the  same  thing  up  at  the  front.  In  no  house  where  we 
billeted  were  there  any  books,  though  often  the  houses 
were  excellently  furnished  and  evidently  belonged  to 
people  with  plenty  of  money  to  spend. 

Do  you  still  get  books  from  Boots'  library  in  Salis- 
bury? Whenever  I  get  back  to  writing  I  don't  think  I 
shall  want  to  write  anything  to  do  with  the  War.  If  I 
could  I  should  forget  it! 

I  had  a  letter  of  very  grateful  thanks  from  my  young 
Jew,  who  has  gone  home;  at  least  he  has  gone  to  Ireland 
(London  is  his  home)  and  he  writes  from  Dublin  Castle, 
where  he  sleeps  in  the  throne  room!  I  must  answer  him 
as  soon  as  I  can  find  a  moment  for  it. 

I  am  sure  Madame  de  Missiessy  would  love  to  have 
anything  you  made  for  her:  but  were  you  not  expecting 
some  more  ''pieces"  from  Hampton's?  If  so,  wait  till 
they  come  and  make  her  a  pretty  bag  for  work.  All  the 
time  she  and  her  girl  talk  they  are  working,  which  is  not 
the  French  way  at  all:  as  a  matter  of  fact,  she  is  Belgian, 
only  her  husband  was  French.  I  told  them  I  had  de- 
scribed to  you  the  little  procession  of  children  and  friends 
on  the  night  of  her  birthday,  when  they  all  gave  her 
their  gifts  of  flowers,  bonbons,  etc.,  and  they  said,  "Oh, 
that  is  not  French  at  all.  It  is  a  Belgian  custom,  and 
our  French  relatives  and  friends  laugh  at  it." 

At  the on  Saturday  the  other  guests  were  a  refugee 


274       John  Ayscough^s  Letters  to  his  Mother 

family  from  Lille  (in  German  hands),  a  father  about 
thirty-four,  a  mother  about  twenty-eight,  and  two  little 
boys  of  twelve  and  seven.  They  were  pretty  little  crea- 
tures, but  how  they  ate!  I  thought  their  little  stomachs 
would  crack.  The  lady,  who  had  excellent  teeth,  smiled 
incessantly,  but  did  not  say  much:  she  was  rather  pretty, 
but  had  powdered  herself  so  profusely  that  her  face 
looked  like  a  rissole  waiting  to  be  fried. 

Now  I  must  stop:  my  letters  grow  duller  every  day: 
but  since  the  tragic  disappearance  of  the  Beraneks  nothing 
has  happened. 

A  Scots  officer  in  hospital  told  me  this  yarn  to-day. 

A  Scottish  laird  sent  for  his  gardener  and  said,  "Fer- 
gusson,  I'm  given  to  know  that  you  go  about  saying  I'm 
a  mean  fellow,  and  not  much  of  a  gentleman!" 

"Na,  na,  laird,"  says  Fergusson,  "I'm  nane  o'  that 
talkin'   sort:    I   ay   keep   my  opinion   to  myself." 

The  small  cutting  below  someone  gave  to  Wilcox: 

''A  Notre-Dame 

—  Dimanche  1 5  aout,  en  V'eglise  Notre-Dame^  a  Ver- 
sailles, a  dix  heures  du  matin,  une  messe  pontificate  a 
et'e  celebree  par  Mgr.  Bickersfatte-Drezu,  protonotaire 
apostolique,  aumonier  de  Vhopital  militaire  anglais  de 
Trianon-Palace. 

Mgr.  Bickersfatte  est  un  converii  qui  s'est  fait  un 
nam  comme  romancier  catholique  a  cote  des  Nezvmann 
et  des  Benson.^' 

I  have  not  really  changed  my  name  to  Bickersfatte! 

The  said  Wilcox  is  nearly  all  right  again,  and  I  think 
he  will  box  no  more. 

I  duly  received  the  "Christmas  Books"  by  Thackeray, 
and  have  already  read  "Our  Street,"  "Mrs.  Perkin's 
Ball,"  and  "The  Kickleburys  on  the  Rhine,"  —  passable 
but  quite  second-rate  stuff;  and  if  I  had  been  Lady 
Ritchie  I  should  have  refused  to  re-publish  them  side  by 
side  with  her  father's  really  great  books.     None  of  these 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother       275 

papers  have  the  least  inspiration  or  illumination;  they 
have  only  a  certain  waspish  sharpness,  and  that  so  re- 
iterated that  it  becomes  stale  and  tedious. 

How  Thackeray  hated  the  Irish  and  libelled  them! 
I  wonder  some  big  Hibernian  did  not  larrup  him:  but 
then  Thackeray  was  very  big,  too, 

I  must  stop  now  to  write  and  thank  a  lady  who  has 
sent  me  a  large  box  of  sweets  for  the  soldiers:  they  like 
them  very  much,  almost  better  than  cigarettes. 

This  is  a  deadly  dull  letter,  but  /  am  dull,  with  all  the 
cotton-woolliness  of  a  cold  still  in  my  head. 

I  like  to  think  of  all  your  prayers  for  me,  and  know 
they  must  be  heard:   don't  get  discouraged! 

Wednesday  Evening,  August  25,  191 5 

I  HAVE  written  so  many  letters  this  evening  that  I  am 
nearly  at  the  end  of  my  writing  tether.  I  had  tea  early 
and  started  writing  directly  after. 

The  day  has  been  about  as  eventful  as  usual.  Mass  at 
eight,  breakfast  9.30,  hospital  till  i,  luncheon  1,15, 
then  a  read  and  a  rest  on  my  bed,  then  letters  till  tea, 
then  more  letters. 

One  of  the  poor  fellows  in  hospital  (not  a  Catholic) 
has  lost  both  hands  and  his  sight.  He  is  so  brave  and 
patient  and  cheerful.  What  must  his  poor  mother 
feel! 

One  of  my  own  patients  has  temporarily  lost  both 
speech  and  hearing  through  the  explosion  of  a  big  shell 
quite  close  to  him  —  he  received  no  wound  at  all.  I 
had  to  talk  with  him  by  writing  in  a  copy-book:  he  is 
only  twenty  and  rather  a  merry-looking  lad. 

I  wonder  if  you  realise  how  homesick  I  am!  I  am  tired 
to  death  of  Versailles,  though  I  don't  want  any  move 
except  to  move  home. 

What  I  miss  in  all  these  minor  books  of  Thackeray's 
is   the   note  of  pathos:    there   are   plenty   of  wonderful 


276       John  AyscougV s  Letters  to  his  Mother 

threads  of  pathos  in  "Vanity  Fair"  and  "The  Newcomes," 
and  "The  Virginians"  (especially),  but  not  an  atom  in 
these  short  tales;  only  a  grim,  ruthless,  scoffing  sarcasm 
and  sour  fun:   and  the  unrelieved  fun  ceases  to  amuse. 

At  five  o'clock  I  was  saying  my  rosary  for  you  and 
picturing  you  sitting  in  the  garden:  it  was  just  the  day 
for  it. 

I  must  stop:   my  brain  is  woolly  (and  so  is  my  pen). 

Thursday  Evening,  August  26,  191 5 

I  RECEIVED  your  letter  of  Monday  this  morning,  and 
not  long  afterwards  went  to  Paris  in  the  tram,  going 
first  to  an  English  chemist's  in  the  Champs  Elysees  to 
get  some  phenacetin,  as  I  had  one  of  my  goes  of  neural- 
gia. Then  to  an  exhibition  of  ancient  tapestry,  lace  and 
ecclesiastical  plate  saved  from  Rheims  and  from  various 
places,  such  as  Ypres,  in  Flanders. 

The  tapestry  and  lace  were  most  magnificent:  I  had 
never  seen  such  "important"  specimens  of  lace  any- 
where, enormous  pieces  as  big  as  a  side-board  cloth,  i.e., 
perhaps  five  yards  long  and  one  to  two  yards  deep. 
The  most  beautiful  was  an  immense  piece  of  Point  D' 
Argentan,  the  design  quite  entrancingly  lovely,  and  in 
absolutely  perfect  condition,  but  there  were  also  equally 
splendid  and  huge  pieces  of  Venice  point  (with  raised 
design)  Venice  point  with  flat  design,  Mechlin  point, 
Brussels,  Point  d'Alen9on,  and  countless  Spanish  and 
other  laces  new  to  me.  As  to  the  tapestries  they  were 
vast,  and  quite  glorious:  what  a  blessing  they  were  re- 
moved from  Rheims,  Ypres,  etc. 

Then  I  went  to  Lady  Austin-Lee  and  had  an  excellent 
lunch.  Sir  H.  seemed  well  and  in  good  spirits.  They 
have  been  wonderfully  nice  to  me,  and  of  boundless 
hospitality:  and  she  always  speaks  of  me  to  others  with 
extreme  affection. 

I  should  have  enjoyed  myself  better  if  I  had  not  had 


John  AyscougV s  Letters  to  his  Mother        2'j'j 

a  splitting  headache  all  day,  which  is,  I  am  glad  to  say, 
now  gone.  Paris  on  a  blazing  August  day  is  not  the  best 
cure  for  a  headache:  not  that  it  is  noisy,  or  stuffy:  its 
streets  are  wonderfully  quiet  for  a  great  city,  and  the 
spaces  are  so  huge  and  open  there  is  plenty  of  air.  Still, 
I  think,  the  air  of  vehement  movement  and  bustle  makes 
a  headache  much  worse. 
I  must  go  to  dinner. 

Saturday  Night,  August  28,  191 5 

It  has  been  hotter  than  ever  all  day  to-day,  with  the 
sort  of  heat  I  specially  dislike:  a  thick,  dirty-feeling 
heat,  without  any  visible  sun.  A  sort  of  sirocco,  in 
fact.  F.  came  this  afternoon  and  asked  me  to  take  him 
round  to  see  our  hospital,  which  I  did.  While  we  were 
going  through  the  wards  Lady  Austin-Lee  came  in,  and 
asked  us  both  to  luncheon  again  for  next  Thursday:  is 
she  not  hospitable  .f* 

I  received  enclosed  from  Lady  Glenconner,  which  you 
may  Hke  to  read:  I  had  written  to  her  a  few  days  ago, 
when  feeling  particularly  homesick,  demanding  one  of 
her  long  letters  to  interest  and  cheer  me  up.  Poor 
woman,  I  think  it  needs  all  her  courage,  and  sense  of 
duty  to  England,  to  keep  her  up  against  the  anxiety  of 
having  both  her  elder  boys  out  in  the  war:  Bim  at  the 
front  in  this  country,  and  Christopher,  younger  still,  on 
his  ship  in  the  Dardanelles.  And,  though  she  seems  very 
happy  in  her  daughter's  marriage,  still  the  loss  of  a  third 
child,  and  the  only  girl,  from  the  home  must  make  the 
circle  very  small  now.  Besides  it  seems  to  me  that  the 
marrying  of  one's  daughter  must  make  a  woman  feel 
old:  I  don't  suppose  she  is  forty  yet,  at  which  age  many 
spinsters  are  called  girls!  But  with  the  probability  of 
being  a  grandmother  in  a  year  or  so  one  can  hardly 
think  of  oneself  as  a  girl.  She  is  really  a  friend  and  her 
cleverness    and    Wyndham    brilliance,    and    her    many 


278       John  AyscougVs  Letters  to  his  Mother 

affairs  never  make  her  overlook  the  absent,  or  make  them 
"out  of  sight,  out  of  mind."  I  do  hope  and  pray  no 
harm  may  come  to  her  boys:  but  the  Guards  have  all 
through  this  war  suffered  terribly,  and  I  see  she  is  full 
of  dread. 

I  sent  you  "The  Sacristans"  this  morning,  and  a 
cutting  from  a  Yankee  paper  calling  it  a  very  fine  story. 
I  remember,  when  I  wrote  it,  thinking  it  a  good  bit  of 
work,  but  I  was  too  lazy  to  read  it  again  before  sending 
it  to  the  Catholic  World,  and  entirely  forgot  what  it  is 
about.  I  think  I  remember  that  it  was  rather  grim  and 
tragic. 

You  write  about  my  unselfishness  —  well,  I  always 
think  one  can  (if  one  has  any  sense)  know  one's  own 
faults  and  their  opposites  as  well  as  anyone  else  can 
know  them:  and  I  don't  think  I  am  selfish,  only  I  demand 
affection  for  affection,  and  when  I  fail  to  get  it,  then  I 
am  sore  and  perhaps  unreasonable.  What  I  mean  is 
this  —  I  expect  I  try  to  buy  affection  by  acts  of  what 
people  call  unselfishness,  and  real  unselfishness  wants 
nothing,  not  even  affection  or  gratitude. 

Though  I  told  you  that  to-day's  heat  is  the  sort  I 
dislike,  it  has  not  tried  me  at  all,  a  proof  that  I  am  well. 
I  have  not,  for  a  long  time  now,  had  any  more  of  that 
tired,  languid  feeling. 

F.  returned  to  the  charge  to-day  about  trying  to  make 
me  go  to  pontificate  vespers  for  the  nuns  at  his  hospital 
to-morrow.  I  fancy  he  had  promised  to  make  me  do  it, 
and  his  obstinacy  was  engaged!  Three  times  he  returned 
to  the  charge,  and  at  last  he  said,  "You  don't  know  how 
much  I  am  annoyed  at  your  continued  refusal."  Then 
I  said,  "My  dear  boy:  I  do  not  want  to  tell  you  how  much 
it  annoys  me  that  you  will  continue  to  make  me  refuse. 
When  I  intend  to  do  anything  I  am  asked  I  say  'Yes' 
at  once.  I  do  not  refuse  three  or  four  times  in  order  to 
say  *Yes'  at  last." 

The  little  lavender-bags  are  so  sweet  and  charming: 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother       279 

I  keep  one  for  myself,  and  I  gave  some  to  some  of  the 
nursing  sisters  in  the  hospital,  who  were  dehghted 
to  get  them.  Wilcox  got  one  which  he  promptly  sent 
home  to  be  kept  among  his  treasures.  He  has  a  profound 
veneration  for  you! 

I  fill  my  letters  with  very  uninteresting  talk  .  .  .  but 
there  is  nothing  to  tell  you!  My  life  is  as  monotonous 
as  a  cuckoo's  song,  and  if  cuckoos  wrote  daily  letters  to 
their  parents  one  would  pity  the  parents.  I  am  to  go 
to  dinner,  and  so  good  night. 

Monday^  8  a.m.,  August  30,  191 5 

I  AM  only  going  to  say  a  hurried  "good  morning," 
and  then  am  going  oflF  on  a  long  day's  pleasuring.  Our 
hospital  has,  for  the  moment,  very  few  patients,  and 
consequently  one  can  get  away  for  a  whole  day  nearly 
without  omitting  any  duty:  and  I  am  off  to  Fontaine- 
bleau.  It  is  a  fine,  but  cool,  morning,  and  I  have  always 
been  talking  of  this  trip  to  Fontainebleau.  It  is  thirty 
miles  on  the  other  side  of  Paris,  and  so  one  has  to  make 
an  early  start  from  here  if  one  intends  to  get  back  the 
same  evening,  as  I  do. 

The  rain  I  hoped  for  on  Saturday  night  duly  arrived, 
and  yesterday  was  a  lovely,  clear,  cool,  clean-aired  day, 
sunny  and  with  a  blue  sky:  before  we  had  had  great  heat, 
with  (often)  a  clouded  sky,  or  a  hot  haze. 

...  I  must  shut  up  or  I  shall  miss  my  train. 

Wednesday  Evenings  5.30,  September  i,  191 5 

I  SENT  you  such  a  mean  little  letter  to-day  that  now 
I  must  try  to  make  up  by  sending  you  one  of  decent 
length,  though  I  do  not  know  at  all  what  I  am  to  make  it 
out  of  .  .  . 

I  duly  received  the  second  little  letter-case  which  I 
will  bestow  on  some  deserving  object! 


28o       John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

It  is  only  half-past  five,  and  nearly  dusk,  because  the 
sky  is  covered  with  dark  clouds,  and  I  expect  we  shall 
have  a  wet  night,  but  the  day  has  been  fine  and  bright 
though  very  cool.  After  writing  to  you  I  must  write 
to  Lady  Glenconner,  or  she  will  think  me  ungrateful, 
as  she  obeyed  my  order  to  write  me  a  long  letter,  by 
return  of  post. 

I  get  up  very  early  here,  and  yet  somehow  I  don't 
get  half  as  much  into  the  day  as  I  do  at  home:  away  from 
my  own  house  I  never  seem  able  to  get  into  an  effective 
routine  and  system  of  work. 

I  sent  you  a  very  little  geranium-seed,  but  though  the 
border  is  so  long,  and  so  broad,  and  none  of  the  first 
bloom  was  cut,  there  is  very  little  seed:  the  heads,  left 
on  the  plants,  are  very  unsightly,  but  hardly  any  have 
seed,  they  are  just  ugly  withered  bunches.  I  looked  for 
more  seed  just  now,  and  only  got  about  half-a-dozen 
seeds. 

Seeing  Fontainebleau  made  me  realise  more  the  selfish 
extravagance  of  Louis  XIV  in  building  Versailles.  He 
had  magnificent  palaces  in  Paris  —  our  kings  had  nothing 
in  London  approaching  the  Tuileries  (which  I  just  re- 
member, but  long  vanished  now),  or  the  Louvre;  he 
had  all  the  glorious  chateaux  of  the  Loire  —  Blois, 
Chambord,  Chenonceau,  Azay,  Langeais,  Amboise:  and, 
if  they  were  too  far  from  Paris  for  country-houses,  he 
had  St.  Germain  and  Fontainebleau.  He  could  not 
hope  to  equal  Fontainebleau,  and  he  did  not:  but  he 
tried  to  surpass  it,  which  he  could  only  do  in  mere  size, 
richness,  and  grandiosity.  Of  course  Versailles  is  more 
grandiose,  much  richer,  much  more  ostentatious,  thari 
Fontainebleau,  but  in  charm  and  ar  istic  splendour  it 
does  not  touch  it:  and  the  Versailles  park,  clever  and 
even  imposing  as  it  is,  has  none  of  the  loveliness  of  the 
Fontainebleau  forest.  To  console  you,  however,  for 
not  having  seen  the  forest  of  Fontainebleau,  I  may  say 
that,  lovely  as  it  is,  the  trees  are  nothing  hke  so  grand  as 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother       281 

those  in  the  forest  at  Savernake:  they  are  crowded  too 
close,  and  there  is  too  much  undergrowth  (to  encourage 
the  wild-boars,  etc.),  so  that  none  of  the  trees  are  forest- 
giants  like  those  at  Savernake.  And  Louis  XIV  knew 
well,  when  he  spent  his  millions  in  making  Versailles, 
that  France  was  starving. 

The  book  of  views  of  Fontainebleau  cannot,  of  course, 
give  you  an  idea  of  the  exquisite  schemes  of  colour  in 
each  room:  no  palace  can  be  more  beautiful  in  that 
respect,  for  sheer  perfection  can  never  be  surpassed. 

One  of  the  little  lavender  bags  you  sent  I  keep  in  my 
letter-drawer,  which  I  just  opened,  and  a  quite  delicious 
fragrance  came  out  to  remind  me  of  you  and  home  — 
of  which  I  never  need  any  reminder.  To-morrow  I 
go  to  lunch  with  Lady  Austin-Lee,  and  shall  see  no  more 
of  her  for  some  time,  as  she  is  leaving  Paris  for  a  month's 
holiday  in  the  country:  I  don't  think  she  often  goes  to 
England  —  which,  of  course,  is  not  her  home.  She  is 
a  very  sincere  woman,  and  I  think  with  her  once  a  real 
friend  it  is.  always  a  friend.   .   .   . 

I  owe  tons  of  letters  —  to  Lady  O'Conor  and  the 
Bishop  among  others:  and  the  latter  is  always  so  good; 
I  leave  his  letters  six  or  seven  weeks  unanswered,  and  as 
soon  as  I  do  write  to  him  he  answers  by  return,  always 
with  brimming  affection. 

Father  Wrafter  has  sent  me  another  parcel,  goodies 
for  the  men  and  more  envelopes  for  me  —  to  him,  too, 
I  must  write. 

I  wish  I  could  paint  you  the  sunset  effects  outside  my 
window  —  the  sunset  itself  is  at  the  other  side  of  the 
house.  But  the  upper  sky  is  all  slaty-grey,  the  fore- 
ground of  the  garden  dusky  green,  with  only  the  colour- 
patches  of  roses  and  white  hydrangeas  showing  up,  for 
it  is  in  the  house's  shadow:  but  a  row  of  cypress  bushes 
catches  a  wonderful  golden  gleam,  and  behind  it  a  long 
brown  roof  has  turned  carmine;  the  trees  beyond  the 
garden  are  deep  brown-pink,  and  the  white  houses  among 


282       John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

them  are  salmon-rose,  with  their  roofs  a  brilHant  raw 
scarlet  like  new  flower-pots:  just  the  lower  rim  of  the 
sky  behind  is  lilac-rose,  flushing  into  a  warmer  purple 
every  moment. 

It  is  lighter  now  than  when  I  began  writing  an  hour 
ago.  But  the  moment  the  sun  has  set  it  will  be  nearly 
dark. 

I  have  proclaimed  an  armistice  with  the  lean  cat  and 
made  her  into  a  pensioner:  instead  of  fleeing  from  me 
she  comes  now  for  a  crusty  breakfast,  and  for  a  supper 
of  scraps,  and  the  birds  are  less  an  object  of  wistful 
interest  to  her.  I  read  somewhere  that  beasts  of  prey 
are  always  hungry,  as  they  never  —  with  all  their  hunting 
—  get  enough  to  fill  their  gaunt  sides.  It  made  me 
feel  quite  sorry  for  them. 

I  must  now  write  some  other  letters,  so  I  will  stop 
this  babble  which  you  must  find  nearly  as  silly  as  Tenny- 
son's brook. 

Friday  Mornings  September  3,  191 5 

"I  HOPE  you  are  quite  well  as  this  leaves  me  at 
present,"  my  cold  having  entirely  vanished. 

Yesterday  F.  and  I  lunched  with  the  Austin-Lees, 
Sir  Henry  being  there,  and  a  Captain  Randall,  a  great 
aviateur  and  expert  in  it.  The  two  latter  went  off^  after 
luncheon  to  the  embassy  to  do  business,  and  Lady  Austin- 
Lee,  F.  and  I  went  ofi^  to  a  cinematograph  in  the  Boule- 
vard des  Italiens.  The  show  was  excellent,  and  Lady 
A.-L.  enjoyed  it  tremendously,  but  I  found  it  too  long, 
as  it  lasted  over  two  hours.  The  war  films  (quite  recent 
ones)  were  excellent  and  very  wonderful. 

Lady  A.-L.  wanted  me  to  go  and  have  tea  with  her 
afterwards,  but  I  wished  to  go  and  buy  the  steel  helmet 
for  Bim,  that  Lady  Glenconner  asked  me  to  get,  so  I 
went  off"  on  my  own  and  left  her. 

It  is  a  very  autumnal  morning,  dark  and  sombre,  and 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother       283 

threatening  abundant  rain:  quite  cold,  so  I  am  feeling 
well  and  cheerful. 

Just  now  I  burned  my  finger  —  the  one  one  holds  a 
pen  with,  with  the  lid  of  the  kettle,  and  I  am  trying  to 
write  this  with  the  pen  held  between  the  third  and  fourth 
fingers,  and  do  not  find  it  all  easy. 

Your  Tuesday's  letter  came  just  now,  in  which  you 
tell  of  your  after-tea  visit  to  the  garden.  If  at  any  time 
you  are  tired  or  sleepy,  don't  force  yourself  to  write  a 
letter,  but  just  write  a  few  words  saying,  "I  am  well  and 
will  write  soon."  What  matters  is  for  me  to  know 
that  you  are  well.  It  isn't  news  I  care  for.  And  both 
of  us  have  often  some  difficulty  in  finding  any. 

I  must  shut  up  and  go  to  the  hospital. 

Many  thanks  for  the  pretty  and  lucky  white  heather. 

Friday  Night,  September  3,  191 5 

I  AM  very  tired  after  a  long  and  wearisome  afternoon 
in  Paris  trying  to  find  the  steel  "calotte"  for  Bimbo 
Tennant,  as  his  mother  asked  me.  I  tried  innumerable 
shops  ever  so  far  apart,  some  in  the  most  central  and 
fashionable  neighbourhoods,  and  some  far  away  in 
extremely  ww-fashionable  quarters,  to  all  of  which  shops 
I  had  been  recommended:  it  was  only  very  late  in  the 
afternoon  that  at  last  I  did  get  the  thing;  so  to-morrow 
I  can  send  it  ojff"  to  Bimbo,  though  I  feel  much  doubt  as 
to  whether  he  will  wear  it.  I  did  nothing  else  in  Paris, 
so  my  visit  has  given  me  nothing  to  tell  you. 

Wilcox  has  sallied  forth  to  see  an  old  French  priest  who 
talks  English  and  is  devoted  to  him;  this  priest  is  abso- 
lutely bUnd,  and  says  his  Mass  by  heart.  Before  our 
menage  in  this  Garden  House  began  Wilcox  could  go  and 
see  his  friend  much  oftener.  He  is  too  busy  now,  for 
Wilcox  has  to  be  housemaid,  caterer,  marketer,  cook, 
and  kitchen-maid,  and  it  keeps  him  pretty  well  occupied. 
/  cook  some  things,   omelettes   of  ever  so   many  sorts 


284       John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

invented  by  Mr.  Ayscough,  sauces  for  our  fish,  etc., 
and  puddings  when  we  have  any. 

Did  I  tell  you  that  in  the  cinematograph  yesterday 
there  was  a  series  of  quite  wonderful  Indian  shikar  (hunt- 
ing) scenes.^  Too  wonderful;  one  of  them  made  me 
feel  quite  sick.  A  sort  of  caravan  of  native  camel- 
drivers,  passing  through  a  jungle,  decide  to  let  loose  one 
camel  and  sacrifice  it,  to  give  them  time  to  escape  from 
some  tigers.  You  see  the  wretched  camel  loosed  and 
left,  and  then  as  it  trots  to  and  fro  across  a  glade  a  huge 
tiger  leaps  out  and  attacks  it.  The  beast  makes  for  the 
camel's  long  neck  and  in  a  few  seconds  pulls  the  huge 
terrified  animal  down,  and  you  see  all  the  horrible  strug- 
gling and  kicking  till  the  struggles  cease  and  the  camel 
is  dead.     It  was  like  a  nightmare. 

There  is  none  of  that  quivering  and  sputtering  there 
used  to  be  in  the  old  cinematograph:  it  is  all  quite  clear 
and  smooth,  with  no  starts  or  flickers. 

I  wonder  how  Madame  M.  is  enjoying  herself  at  the 
seaside;  her  only  idea  of  dissipation  is  going  to  church, 
and  I  fancy  she  will  find  it  hard  work  amusing  herself. 
In  some  ways  she  is  like  Countess  S.,  but  less  of  a  lady, 
and  extremely  generous,  whereas  our  older  friend  was 
mean  and  stingy.  The  resemblance  chiefly  consists  in 
a  total  absence  of  tastes,  and  a  flat  sort  of  pietosity. 
But  Madame  M.  does  much  for  the  poor,  and  works 
really  hard  nursing  the  wounded.  Neither  lady  ever 
reads  or  thinks:    and  Mme.  M.  doesn't  even  gossip! 

I  must  be  going  to  bed  and,  as  I  have  nothing  to  write 
about,  you  do  not  lose  much.  Good-night,  dear,  and 
may  you  have  none  but  happy  dreams  and  wake  to- 
morrow to  a  happy  day. 

Sunday i  September  5,  191 5 

It  is  a  lovely  autumn  morning,  just  the  sort  I  love, 
bright  and  cool.     If  I  were  not  homesick  I  should  say 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother       285 

Versailles  was  looking  lovely:  but  I  am  "fed  up"  with 
it,  as  the  soldiers  say,  and  can't  admire  it  as  it  deserves. 

Last  night,  instead  of  writing  to  you,  I  wrote  a  long 
letter  to  the  Bishop,  as  his  last  to  me  had  been  waiting 
since  July  —  six  weeks  —  for  an  answer. 

This  day  last  year  the  horrible  retreat  from  Mons 
ended  and  we  began  to  move  north  again.  How  well 
I  remember  it!  We  were  quite  near  to  Paris,  though 
I  did  not  realise  then  how  near,  having  no  map:  I  have 
just  been  looking  out  the  places  on  a  map  of  the  environs 
of  Paris  I  bought  yesterday. 

turned   up   yesterday   and   wanted    luncheon:     I 

can't  manage  luncheon  for  guests  in  this  house  now, 
so  took  him  off  to  an  hotel:  to-day  he  lunches  in  Paris 
with  a  middle-class  comrade,  to-morrow  he  asks  me  to 
give  him  lunch  again.  I  wish  he  would  try  to  content 
himself  with  the  luncheon  the  nuns  give  him  at  his 
convent  and  not  be  so  restless.  But,  as  he  will  not  read, 
he  must  be  always  running  about. 

We  had  a  smallish  batch  of  wounded  in  yesterday, 
about  two  hundred  and  seventy,  after  having  none  for 
several  weeks.     So  I  must  go  round  and  see  them. 

Your  parcel  of  lavender-bags  also  arrived  this  morning, 
and  quite  scent  the  room.  Lady  Austin-Lee  said  on 
Thursday  that  the  one  I  gave  her  made  the  whole  drawer 
in  which  she  put  it  fragrant. 

I  have  been  up  since  five  and  am  quite  sleepy  already 
—  it  is  about  ten-thirty. 

September  6,  191 5 

I  RECEIVED  this  morning  your  letter  acknowledging 
mine  telling  you  of  my  Fontainebleau  visit.  .  .  .  Fon- 
tainebleau  is  in  every  way  superior  to  Versailles,  though 
less  pretentious,  and  one  feels  all  the  time  how  the  former 
had  been  a  home  of  the  French  kings  for  eight  hundred 
years,  whereas  Versailles  was  only  built  to  be  a  pompous 
death-bed  for  the  monarchy. 


286       John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

Yesterday,  having  had  a  late  breakfast  after  Mass, 
and  wanting  no  luncheon,  I  hired  a  victoria  and  drove 
again  to  Malmaison,  the  Empress  Josephine's  house  and 
home.     It  was  a  lovely  afternoon  and  a  lovely  drive. 

Outside  the  "barrier"  (town-gate)  at  this  end  of  Ver- 
sailles, the  country,  real  country,  begins  at  once,  whereas 
outside  the  barrier  on  the  Paris  road  there  is  no  country, 
but  houses  the  whole  way  to  Paris,  though  it  is  true  they 
are  but  a  narrow  strip  with  forests  behind  them. 

The  first  place  we  passed  was  a  hamlet  called  Rocquen- 
court,  with  a  large,  very  comfortable-looking  chateau, 
in  very  large  and  fine  grounds,  backed  with  woods, 
belonging  to  Prince  Murat;  he  is  a  cousin  of  the  Clarys. 
You  know  Napoleon  I's  sister  Caroline  married  his 
general,  Joachim  Murat,  and  Napoleon  made  them  King 
and  Queen  of  Naples:  and  the  present  Prince  Murat, 
who  would  also  be  King  of  Naples  had  not  the  Napoleonic 
power  fallen,  is  very  rich,  and  very  thick  with  the  Clarys, 
who  have  often  talked  of  him  to  me. 

We  also  passed  a  hunting  lodge  of  the  Emperor  Napo- 
leon Ill's  and  a  pretty  property  of  the  Empress  Eugenie's 
—  all  carved,  so  to  speak,  out  of  the  forest.  At  Malmai- 
son I  discovered  that  the  Empress  Josephine  and  her 
daughter.  Queen  Hortense  (mother  of  Napoleon  III), 
wife  of  Napoleon's  brother  Louis,  King  of  Holland,  were 
buried  in  the  parish  church,  called  Rueil:  and  went 
there.  It  is  a  handsome,  well-kept  church,  and  I  got 
you  cards  of  the  monuments,  which  are  huge  (much  too 
big).  The  drive  home  was  by  another  road  through 
a  forest  called  St.  Cucufa  —  a  very  odd  name:  quite 
lovely,  with  a  very  pretty  lake  in  the  middle  of  it,  a 
small  lake  that  made  me  think  of  some  of  those  near 
Ellesmere. 

I  was  game  to  go  on  a  long  while  writing:  but has 

just  come  in  asking  for  luncheon,  and  I  can't  write  with 
anyone  waiting  ostentatiously  for  me  to  be  finished. 

So  good-bye.     I  send  two  or  three  odds  and  ends  of 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother       287 

cards  too  —  a  very  nice  Fontainebleau  one,  and  two  of 
Versailles. 

Monday  Evening,  6.45 

Yesterday  was  a  very  bright,  though  quite  an  autumn 
day,  all  sun  and  shine,  though  driving  through  the  forest 
there  was  an  unmistakable  "bite"  in  the  air,  belonging 
rather  to  late  October  than  early  September  —  whereas 
last  year  at  this  time,  at  the  front,  September  was  all 
blazing  heat;  like  a  very  hot  August.  To-day  there  has 
been  less  sun,  after  midday,  and  between  five  and  six 
quite  cold,  though  a  hot  thick  fog  came  on. 

I  am,  this  evening,  a  bit  in  the  dumps  and  am  selfish 
enough  to  tell  you  so.  I  am  homesick  in  every  way, 
not  only  for  you!  but  for  my  home  occupations,  too. 
The  day  here  seems  to  slip  away  with  so  little  done: 
and  yet  I  get  up  very  early. 

There  seems  no  doubt  at  all  that  Germany  is  beginning 
seriously  to  want  peace:  but  the  Allies  know  very  well 
that  peace  now  would  really  give  them  nothing  after  all 
they  have  spent  in  suffering  and  in  men,  in  money,  and 
in  sacrifices  of  every  sort.  The  New  Tork  Tribune  put 
it  very  well,  saying,  "Germany  is  like  a  gamester  who 
has  been  winning  all  night,  and  says, 'Now we  have  played 
enough;  let's  stop,'  but  the  others,  who  have  been  losing, 
say,  'Not  at  all:  you  must  go  on.'"  The  AlHes  feel  that 
Time  will  be  their  best  friend,  and  Germany  knows  it 
will  not  be  hers.  The  Allies  began  to  fight  short  of 
everything,  men,  munitions,  training,  and  comprehension 
of  what  the  war  was  to  be:  now  they  are  much  stronger, 
and  grow  stronger  daily:  so  they  can't  be  expected  to 
want  to  stop  —  just  at  Germany's  moment:  and  espe- 
cially as  they  know  what  impossible  demands  Germany 
would  make. 

Still  it  is  a  beginning  of  hope  that  one  side  should  at 
last  be  thinking  of  peace.  Obviously,  as  long  as  neither 
side  thought  of  it  there  could  be  no  beginning  of  hope. 


288       John  Ayscough^s  Letters  to  his  Mother 

And,  after  all,  I  expect  that  when  Germany  sees  that 
the  Allies  are  not  jumping  at  the  first  idea  of  peace,  her 
demands  will  come  down:  the  more  she  realises  that 
the  Allies  waiit  to  go  on,  the  less  anxious  to  go  on  will  she 
herself  be.  .  .  . 

I  had  a  charming  letter  to-day  from  Herbert  Ward 
(talking  of  the  cinema  in  my  letter  the  other  day  reminded 
me  of  him:  do  you  remember  he  was  with  us  when  a 
man  came  and  gave  a  short  "demonstration"  in  our 
dining-room?).  He  is  now  in  Quetta  at  the  extreme  north 
of  India,  on  a  signalling  course;  a  great  change  from 
Madras,  his  station,  in  the  far  south.  He  is  a  very 
faithful  and  devoted  friend.  .  .  , 

It  is  lamentable  that  they  should  have  disfigured  that 
dear  little  old  plain  church:  it  wanted  no  restoring,  and 
as  for  yellow-washing  the  old  Saxon  font  it  was  brutal. 

I  am  to  go  and  eat.     So  good  night. 

September  7,  191 5 

You  will  be  astonished  to  see  a  letter  with  this  date  — 
let  me  hasten  to  tell  you  I  have  7iot  been  moved  from 
Versailles,  and  shall  go  back  there  to-morrow  night.  But 
I  have  always  wanted  to  see  Chartres,  which  has  about 
the  most  interesting  cathedral  in  France,  and  a  famous 
ancient  shrine  of  Our  Lady;  so,  as  to-morrow  is  the  feast 
of  Our  Lady's  birthday,  I  determined  to  come  here 
to-day  and  say  Mass  at  the  shrine  to-morrow  morning. 
Chartres  is  a  smallish  place,  perhaps  as  big  as 
Winchester,  but  a  very  clean,  cheerful  little  country 
city,  beautifully  situated,  and  the  cathedral  finely  placed. 
It  is  one  of  the  oldest  in  France,  and,  as  you  will  see  by 
the  cards  I  shall  send  you,  extraordinarily  beautiful. 
It  is  full  of  almost  unique  mediaeval  stained  glass,  and  one 
of  the  two  spires  is  a  dream  of  beauty:  the  other,  much 
less  lovely,  is  far  older.  The  famous  shrine  of  Our  Lady 
is  very  interesting;   in  the  time  of  the  Druids  there  was 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother       289 

a  black  image  of  a  Mother  and  Child,  and  those  heathens 
venerated  it  as  the  mysterious  presentiment  of  a  "Vierge 
Enfantee,"  a  Virgin  who  should  have  a  son.  When 
Christianity  was  first  preached  here,  the  pioneers  of  the 
new  faith  did  not  sniff  at  the  old  devotion,  but  explained 
it,  and  said, "The  Virgin  with  the  Son  is  Mary,  the  Mother 
of  Jesus,  the  God  made  man,"  and  the  old  worship, 
become  articulate  and  conscious  of  itself,  went  on,  and 
has  gone  on  ever  since. 

The  shrine  is  a  wonderful  chapel  in  a  quite  wonderful 
crypt  under  the  great  cathedral:  and  is  lighted  by  count- 
less tiny  lamps  that  have  a  singular  and  most  impressive 
effect.  I  got  leave  to  go  there  alone,  when  no  crowd 
was  there,  and  said  the  Rosary  in  perfect  quiet  and 
solitude  (I  am  to  say  Mass  there  at  six-thirty  in  the 
morning)  and  was  allowed  to  venerate  the  special  relic 
of  the  place:  i.e.^  the  veil  of  Our  Lady.  The  whole 
relic  is  only  exposed  on  rare  occasions,  but  a  Httle  bit  has 
been  detached  and  is  enclosed  in  a  Gothic  reliquary  and 
that  they  brought  to  us,  and  I  was  able  to  examine  it 
closely.  It  is  a  little  piece  of  some  very  ancient  linen 
fabric,  woven  loosely,  with  a  sort  of  pattern  running 
through  it.  It  is  one  of  the  great  relics  of  the  Catholic 
Church,  and  it  is  really  a  privilege  to  have  been  able  to 
see  and  venerate  it  under  these  conditions,  apart  from 
any  crowd  and  fuss.  The  whole  crypt  is  really  wonder- 
fully impressive,  huge,  of  immense  age,  dating  back  to 
the  introduction  of  Christianity  in  almost  apostolic 
times,  and  unspoilt  by  any  attempts  to  make  it  smart 
and  modern:  the  weird  lighting  with  the  countless  tiny 
oil-lamps  is  exactly  what  suits  it.  In  one  part  is  a  stone 
well,  one  hundred  feet  deep,  down  which  the  first  martyrs 
of  Christianity  in  these  parts  were  thrown.  I  have  seen 
nothing  so  impressive  outside  Rome. 

I  am  staying  in  a  very  old,  quiet,  and  comfortable 
hotel,  clean  and  excellent,  but  quite  unpretentious,  and 
not  expensive:   the  whole  place  is  more  like  an  English 


290       John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

cathedral  town  than  any  I  have  seen  outside  England: 
only  here  the  cathedral  is  still  Catholic,  whereas  in 
England  the  cathedrals  are  torn  from  the  worship  for 
which  they  were  built. 

This  letter  won't  go  by  the  military  post,  and  I  should 
like  to  know  how  long  it  takes  to  reach  you. 

The  railway  journey  was  very  pretty,  through  a  coun- 
try like  an  endless  park,  with  prosperous  villages  here  and 
there,  rich  farms  and  opulent  rows  of  new  corn-ricks. 

I  wrote  my  last  letter  in  the  "dumps;"  the  change  of 
scene  and  air  has  quite  cheered  me  up  again.  And, 
as  you  know,  I  always  like  travelling,  even  short  distances; 
and  the  mere  railway  journey  is  a  pleasure  and  relief 
to  me.     I  am  uncommonly  sleepy,  and  must  go  to  bed. 

Wednesday  Night,  September  8,  191 5 

This  morning  I  posted  to  you  by  the  French  civil  post 
at  Chartres  a  letter  I  wrote  you  there  last  night:  but 
I  do  not  know  whether  you  will  receive  it  before  this  one 
or  after.  I  need  only  repeat  that  letter  so  far  as  to 
explain  that  I  have  long  been  anxious  to  visit  Chartres, 
whose  cathedral  is  one  of  the  most  ancient,  beautiful, 
and  interesting  in  France  —  or  indeed  in  any  country: 
and  as  to-day  is  Our  Lady's  birthday,  and  the  great 
feast-day  there,  I  went  yesterday  so  as  to  be  able  to  say 
Mass  in  the  shrine  there  to-day. 

I  have  so  many  different  cards  of  it  that  I  shall  send 
them  in  at  least  two  batches  —  perhaps  in  three:  but 
none  are  duplicates,  and  I  would  like  you  to  keep  them  all. 

I  said  Mass  in  the  shrine  at  six-thirty  this  morning. 
The  chapel  is  in  the  crypt,  which  was  crowded  with 
hundreds  of  pilgrims  who  all  went  to  Holy  Communion. 
It  was  wonderfully  impressive  and  devotional,  almost 
like  saying  Mass  in  one  of  the  Roman  catacombs.  After 
Mass  I  went  to  the  hotel  for  breakfast,  then  went  to 
High    Mass    sung    in    the    cathedral    itself.     The   Arch- 


John  Ayscough^s  Letters  to  his  Mother       291 

bishop  "assisted"  at  the  throne,  and  I  was  in  the  stalls, 
and  saw  the  function  beautifully.  It  was  fine  in  itself 
and  the  setting  glorious.  The  vast  church  was  crammed 
with  pilgrims,  and  the  music  was  solemn  and  good  — 
pure  Gregorian:  and  the  ceremonies  carried  out  with 
perfection:  quite  one  of  the  scenes  that  one  can  never 
forget. 

After  luncheon  I  went  to  visit  two  other  churches, 
St.  Pierre  and  St.  Aignau:  both  very  fine  and  very  ancient. 
The  stained  glass  at  the  cathedral,  and  at  St,  Pierre, 
is  splendid,  and  hard  to  rival,  being  of  the  eleventh 
and  thirteenth  centuries,  very  rich,  though  somewhat 
sombre  in  efi^ect,  of  very  dark  colouring,  and  making 
the  church  darker  than  is  usual. 

After  another  farewell  visit  to  the  cathedral  I  caught 
an  express  train  back  here:  and  found  my  Garden  House 
very  homely  and  comfortable. 

I  do  not  think  any  cards  can  quite  convey  the  singular 
loveliness  and  charm  of  Chartres  Cathedral.  Every 
moment  one  looked  at  it,  from  every  point  of  view,  its 
beauty  seemed  to  become  more  entrancing,  and  it  stands 
well,  not  shut  in  by  mean  houses  as  many  Continental 
cathedrals  are.  Rouen  is  not  comparable  to  it:  Chartres 
being  much  earlier,  and  much  purer  in  style,  less  florid 
and  less  heavy.  And  the  city  of  Rouen  does  not  attract 
me  a  bit;  it  is  big,  noisy,  crowded,  and  very  dirty,  whereas 
Chartres  is  brilliantly  clean  and  cheerful,  stands  high, 
and  though  the  streets  are  often  very  ancient  and  winding, 
they  are  gay,  and  at  the  same  time  quiet;  though  it 
has  forty  thousand  inhabitants  it  is  a  regular  country 
town,  with  no  manufactures  or  tall  chimneys  and  no 
slush  or  grime.  Round  the  cathedral  there  seems  to 
reign  a  smiling  calm,  that  the  caw  of  countless  jackdaws 
upon  the  towers  only  makes  more  peaceful  and  more 
gay.  The  weather  was  perfect,  very  brilliant  sunshine, 
and  not  too  hot,  though  a  great  deal  warmer  than  it  has 
been  for  weeks. 


292       John  Ayscough*s  Letters  to  his  Mother 

It  was  not  at  all  an  expensive  trip  either,  for  with 
military  ticket  one  got  there  (first  class)  for  four  francs, 
and  the  hotel,  though  thoroughly  comfortable,  was  very 
cheap. 

I  must  go  to  bed  now,  and  so  wishing  you  none  but 
happy  dreams  and  praying  hard^  hard  that  we  may 
soon  be  together  again.   .  .  . 

Friday  Mornirig,  September  10,  191 5 

I  AM  beginning  what  I  fear  will  be  a  very  short  and 
a  very  empty  letter  before  going  across  to  the  convent 
to  say  Mass.  It  is  a  perfect  autumn  morning,  clear, 
pale,  azure  sky,  light  horizon-haze,  bright  sun,  and  tiny, 
smooth  breeze.  But  it  will  become  hot  as  the  day  ad- 
vances, as  yesterday  did  —  our  hottest  day  for  weeks. 

Yesterday  afternoon  I  went  to  tea  —  the  first  tea  I 
have  been  to,  I  think,  since  leaving  England  —  with  a 
very  nice  family  of  Americans;  their  name  is  Pringle, 
and  they  are,  of  course,  of  Scotch  descent,  but  their 
family  has  been  in  America  for  nearly  three  hundred 
years.  They  themselves  were  all  born  in  America,  but 
have  lived  in  France  nearly  all  their  lives:  they  have  a 
house  at  Biarritz  and  another  here,  to  which  latter  they 
have  only  just  come  for  the  autumn.  Only  one  of  the 
four  sisters  is  a  Catholic,  but  they  are  all  ardent  admirers 
of  Mr.  Ayscough's  books.  The  family  consists  of  four 
sisters  and  a  brother. 

I  found  them  having  tea  under  the  trees  in  their  garden, 
and  was  instantly  surrounded  by  a  yelping  crowd  of 
dogs  (six),  one  of  which,  without  a  moment's  hesitation, 
bit  me  in  the  front  of  the  leg.  The  ladies  seemed  to 
take  it  as  a  matter  of  course,  and  said: 

"How  silly  of  you  to  bite  Monsignor,  Toto;  he  is  not 
going  to  hurt  you." 

There  was  a  young  American  there,  too,  from  Paris, 
I  think;    very  American,  with  an  accent  you  could  have 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother       293 

wiped  your  boots  on,  but  evidently  a  gentleman  and 
nice.  He  looked  rather  scowly  when  the  train  of  dogs 
flew  at  him  on  his  arrival. 

By  this  post  I  send  you  two  ginger-bread  pigs,  one  for 
you  and  one  for  Christie,  which  I  bought  in  the  pil- 
grimage-fair at  Chartres.  They  were  made  to  order, 
at  least  the  names  were! 

In  the  little  box  I  put  the  rest  of  the  cards,  and  a  small 
round  box  which  I  bought  at  that  Kermesse  at  Chaville 
two  or  three  months  ago:  I  didn't  in  the  least  want  it, 
but  the  enterprising  lady  insisted  on  my  giving  her  five 
francs  for  it.  So  now  I  send  it  on  to  you,  with  a  little 
geranium  seed  in  it,  and  you  can  use  it  for  what  you  like. 

I  find  that  many  people  now  feel  certain  that  the  war 
cannot  last  beyond  the  end  of  this  year;  that  the  Germans 
are  running  short  of  money,  men,  and  food,  and  that 
soon  they  will  be  forced  to  stop  fighting.  I'm  sure  I 
hope  so.  I  began  this  before  Mass  and  went  on  with  it 
after  my  breakfast.  During  Mass  the  sun  made  pretty 
dancing  lights  and  shadows  on  the  altar,  shining  through 
the  leaves  of  the  trees  outside  that  the  breeze  was  shaking. 

We  had  a  new  batch  of  wounded  in  yesterday,  not 
very  many,  but  nearly  three  hundred.  I  must  go  round 
to  the  hospital  now. 

Sunday  Night,  September  12,  191 5 

I  WENT  to  Paris  to-day  to  lunch  with  the  English  Pas- 
sionists  at  their  house  in  the  Avenue  Hoche.  They  are 
three.  Fathers  Logan,  Hearne  and  McDarly,  all  very 
nice,  straighforward,  friendly  men,  and  I  enjoyed  it. 
After  luncheon  we  sat  in  the  garden  and  talked,  and  then 
I  came  back  here  for  my  little  evening  service. 

Since  then  I  have  been  reading  the  Month  you  sent  me 
with  this  writing-block,  and  I  think  I  have  read  it  all 
through.  Such  a  long  quiet  read  was  a  treat;  I  seem 
to  have  so  little  time  for  reading  here. 


294       John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

I  heard  that  the  Cardinal  cannot  get  nearly  all  the 
chaplains  he  wants  for  this  place  (France,  I  mean),  .  .  „ 
Not  that  priests  are  unwilling  to  come,  but  because  their 
Bishops  won't  let  them. 

Father  Keating,  the  editor  of  the  Month,  saw  the 
Cardinal  a  few  days  ago  and  tackled  him  about  the 
continuation  of  my  series  of  papers  in  the  Month,  and 
the  Cardinal  at  once  said  that  I  am  to  go  on  writing  them, 
and  spoke  of  them  in  terms  of  high  eulogy:  but  the 
indiscreet  writings  of  some  chaplains,  to  newspapers,  etc., 
had  caused  the  general  prohibition  some  months  ago  of 
all  writing  for  the  press,  which  prohibition  I  have  scru- 
pulously obeyed;  this  prohibition  was,  of  course,  de- 
manded by  the  War  Office.  You  will  accordingly  see 
a  new  instalment  of  my  "French  and  English"  in  the 
October  Month. 

The  American  family  I  lunched  with  yesterday  are 
very  good  company,  and  ought  to  be  in  a  book.  They 
are  from  Carolina,  and  aristocratic  but  not  poor,  as  many 
of  the  old  Southern  gentry  are;  on  the  contrary  they  look 
in  every  way  all  calm  prosperity.  They  have  quite 
a  nice  garden  to  their  house,  and  seem  to  spend  most  of 
the  day  sitting  out  in  it,  knitting,  embroidering  and 
talking  —  especially  the  latter.  The  small  dog  who  bit 
me  made  great  friends  with  me  on  my  second  visit  and 
was  jealous  when  any  of  the  other  dogs  came  near. 

Monday  Evening,  September  13,  191 5 

I  haven't  anything  particular  to  tell  you,  except  that 
I  am  always  thinking  of  you,  and  saying  countless  Masses 
for  you.  When  you  sit  looking  out  of  the  window  if 
you  think  of  me  you  may  be  pretty  sure  I  am  thinking 
of  you,  too.  .  .  . 

Do  you  remember  a  very  nice  young  aviator  who 
came  over  to  luncheon  once  —  his  name  was  Mapple- 
beck,  and  he  had  had  a  bad  accident  while  flying,  but 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother       295 

was  quite  recovered?  I  am  so  grieved  to  see  that  he 
has  been  killed.  Poor  lad:  he  was  very  lovable  and 
attractive. 

We  are  having  a  spell  of  heat  here,  too,  but  I  do  not 
feel  it  at  all.  I  have  been  rather  uncomfortable  lately, 
owing  to  inflammation  of  the  periosteum,  which  means 
the  envelope  of  the  roots  of  my  teeth.  I  went  and  saw 
the  dentist  and  told  him  flatly  I  would  only  have  a  tooth 
out  if  he  could  undertake  it  should  be  a  very  diff'erent 
operation  from  the  last.  This  was  the  elderly  dentist, 
not  his  partner,  who  operated  before.  He  examined 
my  teeth  and  said,  "They  are  excellent:  but  they  are 
quite  extraordinarily  firmly  rooted  in  your  jaws:  only 
one,  the  broken  one  (it  is  not  decayed,  but  simply  broken), 
is  the  culprit  that  sets  up  the  slight  inflammation:  but 
I  cant  advise  you  to  have  it  out:  for  it  is  fixed  hke  a 
rock  in  your  head,  and  you  would  suffer  horribly.  My 
partner  will  never  forget  how  you  sufi^ered  with  the 
corresponding  tooth  in  the  other  jaw  which  he  extracted. 
He  says  it  was  far  the  worst  extraction  he  ever  had  to  do, 
and  he  could  not  have  believed  anyone's  tooth  would 
be  so  embedded  like  a  rock  in  the  jaw." 

So  I  have  to  grin  and  bear  it:  and  no  doubt  it  will  be 
all  right  in  a  day  or  two.  I  was  quite  pleased  to  find 
the  dentist  of  my  own  opinion  that  it  would  be  useless 
to  risk  the  real  shock  of  another  extraction  hke  the  last. 
And  I  think,  considering  that  that  other  tooth  was  so 
immovably  fixed  I  was  lucky  that  he  did  not  break 
away  some  of  my  jaw  with  it.  The  cocaine  injection 
deadened  the  pain  of  the  first  extraction,  but  there  were 
four,  and  the  eff"ect  had  quite  gone  ofi^  before  the  whole 
thing  was  completed,  so  that  the  last  two  .  .  .  were 
really  wrenched  out  without  anything  to  make  the  shock 
and  pain  less.  I  felt  that  my  heart  could  not  stand  much 
more,  and  I  believe  if  I  had  gone  on  to  have  another 
tooth  out  then  I  should  have  collapsed. 

I  must  stop:   and  so  good  night. 


296       John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

Saturday  Morning,  6.15  a.m.,  September  18,  191 5 

Your  letter  of  Tuesday  morning  I  found  at  the  hospital 
when  I  went  round  there  yesterday  morning,  after  clos- 
ing my  own  letter  to  you. 

I  worked  in  hospital  till  luncheon-time,  then  came  home 
and  after  luncheon  went  off  to  the  chateau  to  meet  the 
Pringles,  F.  and  young  Mr.  Dawson  (he  is  quite  grown-up, 
you  understand  —  about  thirty-seven  or  thirty-eight!) 

We  had  a  very  interesting  time  going  over  the  chateau; 
in  addition  to  all  I  had  seen  before  —  the  state  apart- 
ments, chapel,  etc. ;  we  saw  the  private  apartments  of  the 
kings  and  queens,  the  apartments  of  the  princesses 
(daughters  of  Louis  XV),  and  the  apartment  of  Madame 
du  Barry:  the  bathroom  of  Louis  XV  and  that  of  Marie 
Antoinette,  etc. 

F.  got  us  into  trouble!  We  were  in  the  king's  dressing- 
room,  all  close  together  in  a  group,  and  I  said  to  the 
guardians,  "I  suppose  that  door  is  a  'service-door'  for 
the  servants  to  enter  by?" 

**No,  Monseigneur,  it  is  a  cupboard,"  said  the  man. 
F.,  with  all  of  us  looking,  must  needs  open  the  door, 
and.  .  .  . 

"Modern!"  explained  the  guardian,  laconically. 

The  four  Americans  evidently  were  choking  with 
laughter,  and  so  were  we  three  men:  but  we  all  scuttled 
off  to  pretend  to  admire  some  carvings  or  pictures  or 
something! 

We  also  went  up  onto  the  roofs,  and  the  views  over 
the  surrounding  gardens,  park,  and  forests  were  really 
glorious. 

Then  we  went  to  tea  with  Mr.  Dawson  at  his  flat, 
and  a  young  M.  Pleyel  came  in  and  played  the  piano 
quite  magnificently  —  the  finest  playing  I  ever  heard 
except  Paderewski's  and  Slivinski's:  but  this  young 
fellow  is  only  twenty,  and  a  soldier  (not  by  profession, 
but  by  conscription). 


John  Ayscough^s  Letters  to  his  Mother       297 

I  am  so  glad  you  like  the  little  brass  and  silver  box  that 
I  bought  at  the  Kermesse  at  Chaville;  also  the  pig  — 
you  had  better  eat  him  up,  or  he  will  get  high  this  close 
weather. 

In  a  week  or  two  I  shall  send  you  some  small  plants 
of  the  fuchsia  I  told  you  of — with  scarlet  trumpet- 
shaped  pendant  flowers:  not  large  plants,  as  the  gardener 
tells  me  it  is  a  very  quick  grower,  and  these  small  plants, 
about  ten  inches  high,  will  be  quite  big  and  tall  next 
year. 

Now  I  must  dress:    so  good-bye. 

Sunday  Nighty  September  19,  191 5 

Your  letter  of  Thursday  reached  me  to-day,  and  now 
I  hope  to  have  a  quiet  talk,  though,  like  yourself,  I  haven't 
a  great  deal  to  tell  you.  Yesterday  I  had  to  go  to  Paris 
to  get  Bimbo  Tennant  a  steel  helmet,  painted  dove-grey, 
in  addition  to  the  "calotte"  or  steel  skull-cap  I  had 
already  sent  him.  It  was  hot  and  stuffy;  but  to-day 
has  been  quite  different,  sunny,  clear,  and  fresh  —  much 
more  to  my  taste.  A  good  many  leaves  have  fallen, 
and  the  many  boulevards  of  Versailles  are  strewn  with 
them.  Soon  the  parks  will  be  looking  lovely,  but  to  make 
the  trees  turn  colour  some  night-frosts  will  be  wanted 
and  so  far  there  have  been  none. 

I  had  a  note  to-day  from  Miss  Maria  Pringle  (the 
Catholic  sister)  asking  me  to  tea  to-morrow;  they  really 
are  an  acquisition  to  my  very  small  stock  of  friends  here, 
their  talk  is  pleasant  and  cheerful,  and  they  are  charming 
ladies,  of  an  old-fashioned  sort  not  too  common  now. 

I  am  to  lunch  with  them  one  day  this  week,  too,  to 
meet  a  very  great  friend  of  theirs  of  whom  I  have  often 
heard  —  the  Marquise  de  Montebello,  whose  husband 
used  to  be  a  very  distinguished  ambassador  from  France 
to  the  court  of  Russia,  where  Madame  de  Montebello 
herself  made  a  great  name  by  her  charm  and  cleverness. 


298       John  Ayscouglos  Letters  to  his  Mother 

On  Tuesday  morning  I  am  going  to  Paris  to  see  the 
consecration  of  a  Bishop  by  the  Cardinal  Archbishop  of 
Paris  at  the  Madeleine.  The  new  Bishop  —  Monseig- 
neur  Riviere,  is  Cure  of  the  Madeleine  and  is  becoming 
Bishop  of  Perigueux:  it  will  be  a  very  fine  and  interest- 
ing function;  Cardinal  Amette  will  be  assisted  by  the 
Bishop  of  Arras  (which  town  is  in  German  hands)  and 
the  Archbishop  of  Sens. 

The  Pringles  are  indignant  if  one  pretends  to  think 
them  Yankees:  for  South  Carolina  was  all  against  the 
Northern  States,  and  was  friendly  to  England  at  the  time 
of  the  war  of  American  Independence.  And  they  only 
went  to  America  in  the  eighteenth  century,  and  scofF 
at  the  Pilgrim  Fathers! 

When  I  was  in  India  long  ago  the  German  Jesuits  in 
Bombay  and  in  that  Presidency  were  extraordinarily 
kind  and  hospitable  to  me,  and  their  work  was  splendid; 
they  had  built  half  a  dozen  immense  and  excellent  col- 
leges, and  the  Government  was  loud  in  praise  of  their 
work:  now  they  have  all  been  "deported"  (one  hundred 
and  twenty-four  of  them),  including  the  Archbishop  of 
Bombay  and  the  Bishop  of  Poona,  They  are  not  ac- 
cused of  any  plotting  or  disloyalty,  and  it  seems  rather 
hard  —  but  the  other  missionaries,  always  very  jealous 
of  their  splendid  work,  have  been  badgering  the  Govern- 
ment to  "deport"  them.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  being 
turned  out  of  Germany  for  being  Jesuits,  they  were  the 
last  people  to  want  to  abuse  the  hospitality  and  toler- 
ation of  our  Empire.  As  all  the  clergy  throughout  the 
whole  Bombay  presidency  are  Jesuits  and  Germans,  it 
is  a  sad  thing  for  the  Catholic  population  in  those  parts, 
as  they  will  be  left  without  clergy.  Mass,  or  sacraments. 
They  had  been  there  sixty  years,  since  1854,  and  the 
condition  of  things  when  they  arrived  was  very  bad: 
they  were  given  the  job  on  purpose;  the  only  priests 
there  before  being  nominally  "Portuguese"  (really  ?iatives 
of  Portuguese  name,  descendants  of  converts  made  long 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother       299 

ago  by  Portuguese  missionaries,  and  called  by  the  family 
names  of  their  Portuguese  godparents),  ignorant,  and 
incapable.  The  Jesuits  got  everything  restored  to  de- 
cency and  order,  built  churches  and  schools  and  colleges 
everywhere,  and  made  their  congregations  models  of 
behaviour  and  inteUigence:  and  now  the  whole  body  of 
clergy  in  the  Presidency  is  ''deported"  wholesale. 
Good  night. 

Monday  Evening,  September  20,  191 5 

To-morrow  morning  I  must  get  up  before  five  and 
say  Mass  before  six  so  as  to  get  into  Paris  in  time  for 
the  beginning  of  the  consecration  of  the  Bishop  of  Peri- 
gueux.  So  I  must  write  to  you  to-night,  as  I  may  not 
get  home  in  time  to  write  before  our  rather  early  post  is 
made  up  for  England. 

I  have  not  long  come  in  from  the  Pringles,  who  asked 
me  to  tea.  The  family  (and  the  dogs)  were  in  full  force, 
and  we  sat  under  the  trees  in  the  garden,  till  it  grew  a 
little  chilly,  when  we  moved  indoors.  The  dogs  had 
several  loudly  contested  battles  among  themselves,  but 
as  they  only  bit  one  another  I  had  no  objection. 

All  morning  I  worked  in  the  hospital.  One  poor  fel- 
low has  his  eyes  badly  burned  by  the  liquid  fire  the 
Germans  squirt  at  our  fellows  now.  But  I  do  not  think 
he  will  permanently  lose  his  sight. 

I  was  shown  by  Miss  Maria  Pringle  a  very  interesting 
little  note  thrown  into  one  of  the  French  trenches  by  the 
Germans,  and  picked  up  by  a  French  soldier-friend  of 
hers.     It  was  written  in  good  French  and  said: 

^'Comrades  and  brave  friends!  Why  go  on  fighting 
against  us?  We  do  not  hate  you;  it  is  the  EngHsh  we 
hate.  We  know  how  brave  you  are,  and  how  splendidly 
you  fight:  but  you  cannot  dislodge  us,  we  are  too  strongly 
entrenched  and  have  too  many  troops  behind  us.  You 
will  only  sacrifice  your  brave  lives  for  nothing.     Do  make 


300       John  AyscougWs  Letters  to  his  Mother 

up  your  minds  to  surrender  and  we  promise  on  our  word 
of  honour  that  you  shall  be  well  treated.  The  English 
are  doing  badly  in  Egypt  and  in  South  Africa:  they  will 
be  beaten  soon.  You  are  foolish  to  be  on  their  side. 
Why  be  beaten  with  them.?  Come  over  and  trust  to 
us  and  you  will  be  well  treated. 

*'  Tour  comrades  and  friends.** 

I  had  often  heard  of  these  notes,  but  had  never  seen 
one. 

The  French  are  not  at  all  likely  to  be  taken  in  by  that 
sort  of  stuff:  it  would  take  a  very  different  salt  to  catch 
them  by  the  tail. 

Your  letter  of  Friday  arrived  this  morning:  I  am  so 
glad  it  cheered  and  pleased  you  to  know  how  constantly 
I  say  Mass  for  you  —  many  times  each  week  —  and  that 
my  thoughts  are  almost  incessantly  with  you. 

I  knew  you  would  be  grieved  to  hear  of  young  Mapple- 
beck  being  killed;  he  was  really  a  nice  lad,  and  I  had 
often  hoped  to  meet  him  again. 

I  guessed  Miss  Burtt  would  come  round  to  see  you: 
and  am  delighted  that  my  very  minute  gift  gave  her 
pleasure.  /  thought  that  little  brooch  pretty,  though 
less  original-looking  perhaps  than  the  others. 

There  does  not  seem  to  be  much  news  in  the  paper 
to-day,  but  the  letters  I  get  from  fellows  at  the  front 
seem  sanguine  and  cheerful.  You  mustn't  be  too  much 
depressed  by  the  Daily  Mail,  whose  pessimism  is  part  of 
its  campaign  against  the  existing  Ministry.  I  fancy 
it  wants  to  get  Lloyd  George  made  Premier. 

You  will  say  that  this  is  a  very  dull  and  prosy  letter, 
and  so  it  is:  but  hospital  work  is  monotonous  and  does 
not  give  one  much  to  talk  about. 

I  gave  some  of  your  lavender-bags  to  some  of  the  nuns 
at  the  convent  opposite,  where  I  say  Mass  five  days  a 
week.  I  only  said  you  had  made  them,  but  they  hopped 
to  the   conclusion   that   you   had   made   them   expressly 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother       301 

for  them,  and  thanked  me  with  such  profuse  gratitude 
that  I  felt  quite  guilty.  They  charged  me  with  volu- 
minous messages  of  gratitude. 

I  must  dry  up  now:   so  good  night. 

Tuesday  Evening,  September  21,  191 5 

I  SAID  Mass  at  quarter  to  six  this  morning,  had  break- 
fast and  went  in  to  Paris,  getting  there  at  8.20:  and  went 
straight  to  the  Madeleine,  where  the  consecration  of 
Monseigneur  Riviere  was  to  take  place. 

The  tickets  I  had  were  not  numbered,  and  only  gave 
admission  to  the  church,  so  I  had  no  right  to  expect  any 
good  place,  but  I  showed  my  card  and  they  gave  us 
two  splendid  places  at  the  very  top  of  the  church,  close  to 
the  sanctuary,  where  one  saw  the  whole  ceremony  per- 
fectly. 

It  was  quite  one  of  the  finest  and  most  glorious  func- 
tions I  ever  saw.  The  Cardinal  Archbishop  of  Paris, 
Cardinal  Amette,  was  the  consecrant,  assisted  by  the 
Archbishop  of  Sens,  and  the  Bishop  of  Arras,  and  there 
were  sixteen  bishops  altogether.  The  music  was  most 
beautiful,  and  the  long,  very  ancient  ceremony  extraor- 
dinarily imposing  and  fine. 

Toward  the  end  a  Master  of  Ceremonies  came  and 
begged  that  when  all  was  over  I  would  allow  him  to 
present  me  to  the  new  Bishop.  Poor  man,  he  looked 
terribly  tired,  and  I  should  think  he  had  violent  neural- 
gia —  /  should  have  had  if  I  had  been  in  his  place  anyway. 

After  some  luncheon  I  went  on  one  of  the  Seine  steamers 
down  the  river  to  the  Jardin  des  Plantes,  and  renewed 
my  acquaintance  with  the  wild  beasts,  some  of  whose 
portraits  I  send  you! 

We  went  to  the  lions'  quarters  at  three  o'clock  to  see 
them  fed,  but  the  lions'  butcher  telephoned  that  he  had 
not  been  able  to  get  their  dinner  in  time,  and  could  not 
send  it  round  till  five  o'clock.     If  I  was  disappointed, 


302       John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

imagine  the  disappointment  of  the  lions!  They  looked 
so  terribly  empty,  and  each  of  them  fidgeted  round  and 
round  his  or  her  den  in  uncontrollable  hunger  and  im- 
patience. They  are  only  fed  once  in  the  twenty-four 
hours  and  the  piece  of  horse-flesh  they  get  is  not  big, 
so  I'm  sure  the  poor  creatures  were  enduring  pangs  of 
hunger.  When  I  speak  of  the  "lions,"  that  includes  all 
the  large  wild-beasts  in  that  house  —  wolves,  panthers, 
pumas,  hyenas,  etc.  There  are  lots  of  jackals,  very 
pretty  little  foxy  beasts,  and  uncommonly  glad  to  get 
hunks  of  buns,  etc. :  so  were  the  huge  bears  —  brown, 
black  and  polar.  But  no  amount  of  hunger  would  make 
the  lions  eat  sweet  cakes!  They  looked  much  as  Napoleon 
would  have  looked  had  you  offered  him  an  acid-drop. 
One  large  snake  had  just  been  changing  his  skin,  and  the 
old  one  was  lying  in  his  tank,  but  he  seemed  quite  done 
up  by  the  ceremony  —  like  the  Bishop  of  Perigueux. 

There  were  plenty  of  crocodiles,  but  no  large  ones; 
four  or  five  huge  turtles;  a  lot  of  chameleons,  that  really 
did  absolutely  copy  the  colours  of  what  they  were  sit- 
ting on  —  those  on  a  tree-stump  were  just  the  shade  of 
its  bark,  while  those  on  the  yellow  sanded  floor  were 
exactly  of  that  shade. 

No  English  mail  came  in  to-day,  so  I  suppose  there 
will  be  two  to-morrow. 

I  am  very  sleepy  after  getting  up  at  twenty  past  four 
this  morning  and  all  my  runnings  about  to-day:  so  I 
will  go  to  bed. 

I  hope  you  are  well,  and  that  this  honest  autumn 
weather  is  suiting  you  —  to-day,  by  the  way,  was  un- 
commonly hot  in  Paris,  much  hotter  than  any  day  of 
August;  still  not  stuflFy  or  heavy.  On  the  Seine  there 
was  a  fresh  and  sweet  breeze. 

Good  night. 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother       303 

Thursday  Evenings  5.45  P.M.,  September  23,  191 5 

It  is  a  heavy,  disagreeable  evening  —  what  I  call 
"gashly":  the  sun  disappeared  about  three  o'clock,  and 
it  became  thick  and  cloudy,  but  hotter  than  ever,  with 
not  a  breath  of  hve  air  anywhere.  Now  a  few  hot  drops 
of  rain  are  falling,  but  I  fear  it  is  not  going  to  be  much. 

I  used  to  tell  you  that  this  grey,  hot  weather  at  Ver- 
sailles was  like  a  Malta  sirocco,  but  the  difference  is  that 
whereas  the  sirocco  was  teeming  with  damp  it  is  not  so 
here,  but  very  dry,  and  I  suppose  that  is  why  one  does 
not  feel  it  much.  Still  it  is  very  oppressive,  and  always 
depresses  my  spirits  for  the  moment:  as  you  know  the 
dark  weather  that  comes  from  rain  never  depresses  me 
in  the  least  —  that  seems  to  me  natural  and  above-board. 

Hurray!  The  rain  is  really  coming  down,  and  I  hope 
it  will  go  on  all  night  and  give  us  a  clean,  washed  day 
to-morrow.  Though  it  has  not  yet  struck  six,  it  is  so 
dark  in  my  window  that  I  have  to  move  my  writing- 
table  back   to   its   place   and   light   up   for  the  evening. 

I  had  a  very  nice  letter  from  Lady  Austin-Lee  to-day, 
rather  reproaching  me  for  not  having  written,  so  I  must 
do  so:  and  Countess  d'Osmoy  also  writes,  mildly  re- 
proaching me  for  my  silence.  I  must  write  to  both  this 
evening,  also  to  Lady  O'Conor  and  the  Duchess  of  Wel- 
lington. 

The  story  of  the  German  governess  at  Woolwich  is 
very  interesting  and  instructive;  no  doubt  the  Germans 
have  had  plenty  of  such  spies  for  years  past:  and  no 
doubt  everyone  thought  their  particular  Fraulein  was 
immaculate. 

I  wonder  where  the  Beraneks  are,  and  if  they  are 
still  in  the  land  of  the  living. 

Queen  Eugenie  of  Spain  must  be  having  a  very  un- 
comfortable time  of  it;  Spain  is  furiously  pro-German, 
and  her  mother-in-law,  the  Queen  Dowager,  is,  of  course, 
Austrian.     Is  the  Austrian   Emperor's  portrait  that  he 


304       John  Ayscough^s  Letters  to  his  Mother 

sent  me  still  displayed  on  the  inlaid  table  in  the  drawing- 
room?  I  forgot  all  about  it:  but  I  think  it  would  be 
well  to  wrap  it  up  in  silver  paper  and  put  it  safely  away 
till  after  the  war. 

I  must  now  stop  to  tackle  those  other  letters. 

I  bought  you  a  pretty  ring  for  a  birthday-present 
to-day,  and  thought  to  send  you,  besides,  a  little  tip. 
Does  that  suit  your  ideas? 

With  best  love  to  Christie. 


Saturday  Evening,  September  25,  191 5 

When  I  was  writing  to  you  a  night  or  two  ago  I  spoke 
of  the  very  close,  hot,  sunless  weather  we  had  had,  and 
how  a  few  drops  of  rain  began  to  fall.  Since  then  the 
weather  has  quite  broken,  and  yesterday  and  to-day 
have  been  very  rainy,  though  it  has  not  rained  all  day 
to-day,  nor  did  it  do  so  yesterday. 

However,  at  two  o'clock  this  afternoon,  the  hour  at 
which  we  were  to  start  in  the  Pringles'  motor  for  Ram- 
bouillet,  it  came  down  in  torrents,  and  seemed  determined 
to  go  on  indefinitely.  So  we  (F.  and  I)  were  not  sur- 
prised that  the  motor  and  the  ladies  did  not  turn  up. 
After  a  while  one  of  their  footmen  brought  a  note  asking 
if  we  could  go  to-morrow,  Sunday:  and  so  we  walked 
round  and  found  the  four  ladies  all  at  knitting  or  em- 
broidery or  stitching,  and  rather  glad  to  have  two  people 
to  talk  to.  The  five  dogs  all  leaped  to  their  feet,  and 
barked  and  snarled,  but  we  were  neither  of  us  bitten, 
and  presently  they  all  dashed  out  into  the  garden  to  bite 
the  gardener  at  their  leisure.  When  they  returned  they 
were  quite  quiet  for  a  while,  but  presently  Koko  became 
jealous  of  Cricket,  who  was  seated  on  Miss  Susie's  lap, 
and  made  a  leap  at  him  and  bit  him,  which  Cricket 
returned  with  interest.  Miss  Susie  tried  to  impose 
peace,  and  I  saw  Koko  (my  friend)  give  her  two  pretty 
successful  bites.     She  did  not  seem  to  be  either  surprised 


John  Ayscough^s  Letters  to  his  Mother       305 

or  annoyed,  and  Koko's  mistress,  Miss  Maria,  said, 
*' Susie,  your  dress  must  have  some  very  nasty  dye  in 
it,  for  poor  Koko  is  spluttering  and  making  faces  as  he 
always  does  when  he  has  got  something  disagreeable 
in  his  mouth." 

Apart  from  these  little  interludes  our  visit  was  very 
pleasant  and  peaceful:  I  gave  them  (not  the  dogs) 
a  lavender-sachet  each,  and  they  were  delighted:  and 
also  I  gave  them  a  copy  of  "Mezzogiorno."  To-day  I 
sent  Lady  Austin-Lee  a  copy  of  "Faustula,"  and  will 
give  her  "Gracechurch"  as  well.  The  Pringles  showed 
me  an  interesting  picture  of  the  "Pringle  House"  at 
Charleston,  in  which  their  old  aunt  lives  alone.  It  was 
built  in  George  II's  time  out  of  bricks  brought  from  Eng- 
land, and  is  a  fine,  solid,  Georgian  house,  with  a  fine 
stone  portico:  handsome,  grave,  respectable,  and  aristo- 
cratic-looking. 

In  spite  of  the  dogs  I  never  met  so  nice  an  American 
family,  and  they  give  one  a  very  pleasant  impression  of 
heartiness  and  sincerity.  They  are  just  the  sort  of  people 
you  would  like  (I  can't  undertake  to  say  you  would  like 
the  dogs!)  and  they  like  the  sort  of  things  I  like  —  read- 
ing aloud  some  book  worth  reading,  in  a  homely  sort  of 
way,  while  the  rest  work. 

Dearest,  have  courage  and  trust,  and  God  will  bring 
us  to  each  other  again. 

Sunday  Evening,  September  26,  191 5 

If  this  is  a  short  letter  it  is  not  because  I  am  pressed 
for  time,  but  because  my  very  long  letter  of  last  night 
used  up  pretty  nearly  all  I  had  to  say. 

Our  hospital  is  for  the  moment  nearly  empty,  as  we 
sent  every  man  who  could  possibly  be  moved  away  to- 
day, having  received  an  order  to  be  ready  to  receive  a  very 
large  number  of  wounded.  This  means  that  we  are 
making  a  big  "push"  up  on  the  front:  and  oddly  enough 


3o6       John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

I  heard  first  that  it  was  to  be  from  Scotland!  i.e.,  in  a 
letter  from  Lady  Glenconner  two  days  ago.  Bim  had 
told  her  that  a  big  advance  was  to  be  made,  involving 
a  million  men. 

I  said  Mass  this  morning  asking  God  to  be  with  our 
hosts,  and  especially  that  we  and  our  French  comrades 
might  succeed  in  taking  vast  numbers  of  prisoners  who 
should  surrender  unhurt. 

God  knows  I  have  never  prayed  bloodthirsty  prayers: 
still  one  can  see  now  that  it  would  have  been  a  merciful 
thing  if  in  the  beginning  of  the  war  we  could  have,  with 
our  Allies,  inflicted  a  crushing  blow  on  the  enemy  even 
if  it  had  involved  great  loss  of  life:  for  then  the  war 
would  have  not  dragged  on  with  its  daily  and  weekly 
losses  of  life  for  thirteen  months. 

It  looks  as  if  things  were  about  to  emerge  from  the 
deadlock  of  the  last  month  or  two:  Bulgaria's  mobili- 
sation has  made  Greece  mobilise,  and  will  probably  make 
Roumania  do  the  same,  and  at  least  there  will  be  action: 
nothing  tends  to  prolong  the  war  like  the  sitting  tight 
of  recent  weeks. 

I  must  write  other  letters  now:    so  good-bye. 

Monday  Evening,  September  27,  191 5 

We  had  a  good  large  convoy  of  wounded  during  last 
night,  and  I  was  busy  in  hospital  all  morning.  Every- 
one seemed  in  good  spirits,  the  French  and  English  ad- 
vance had  been  so  successful  and  encouraging  —  the 
most  successful  thing  on  our  front  since  the  Battle  of 
the  Marne  nearly  a  year  ago.  If  this  activity  continues 
and  is  blest  with  similar  success,  it  will  do  something 
toward  ending  the  war. 

There  is  an  air  of  cheerfulness  and  satisfaction  on  all 
faces.  I  went  to  luncheon  with  our  Americans,  but  the 
Marquise  de  Montebello,  who  was  to  have  come  from 
Paris  (on  purpose  to  meet  me),  had  to  telegraph  that  she 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother       307 

could  not  come,  as  she  is  in  charge  of  a  hospital,  and 
wounded  soldiers  were  pouring  in.  Five  thousand  French 
wounded  arrived,  in  Paris  only,  from  the  front  yesterday. 
Our  hostesses  and  host  were  very  nice  and  pleasant  and 
our  luncheon  party  was  very  agreeable. 

Afterwards  two  of  the  sisters  motored  us  in  to  Paris 
for  the  drive,  in  their  huge  and  most  luxurious  motor. 
We  went  by  the  forest  and  park  of  St.  Cloud  and  came 
back  by  Neuilly  and  the  Seine.  I  enjoyed  it  immensely; 
as  you  say,  these  kind  and  really  very  agreeable  ladies 
are  a  great  acquisition.  They  have  a  great  friend  at 
Biarritz  (where  they  consider  their  home  is,  as  the  house 
there  is  their  own,  and  they  spend  eight  out  of  the  twelve 
months  there  every  year),  the  Duchess  of  San  Carlos, 
an  American  married  to  a  Spanish  grandee,  who,  they 
say,  is  wildly  jealous  of  their  knowing  me,  as  she  is  a 
fervent  admirer  of  John  Ayscough's  books.  .  .  . 

Yes,  I  am  sorry  for  the  German  Jesuits  of  the  Bombay 
Presidency;  but,  as  you  say,  English  Jesuits  in  Germany 
would  no  doubt  have  had  much  worse  to  suffer.  And 
if  it  leads  to  the  appointment  of  English  priests  for  the 
whole  Bombay  Presidency,  it  will  do  great  good.  And 
it  appears  that  there  have  always  been  many  English 
who  disliked  and  resented  having  these  German  priests 
to  hear  their  confessions,  preach  to  them,  etc.,  and  after 
the  war  a  more  satisfactory  arrangement  may  be  arrived 
at.  It  certainly  seems  odd  that  in  a  whole  Presidency 
of  a  British  possession  the  priests  should  be  foreigners. 


Tuesday,  7.45  a.m. 
I  am  just  going  to  say  Mass  for  you. 

Tuesday  Evening,  September  28,  191 5 

It   is   a   chilly,   tempestuous   evening,    and    I    like   it! 
The  morning  was  fine,  so  was  the  early  afternoon,  and 


3o8       John  AyscougFs  Letters  to  his  Mother 

I  was  pleased  to  think  that  the  Pringle  party  going  to 
Brittany  were  having  such  a  nice  day  for  their  start: 
for  Mr.  Pringle,  Miss  Maysie  and  Miss  Susie,  with  the 
chauffeur,  were  going  in  the  big  new  car  to  Brittany 
till  Saturday  —  it  is  very  powerful  and  quick,  and  can 
do  one  hundred  kilometres  an  hour.  They  were  to  do 
four  hundred  miles  to-day! 

I  was  to  go  to  tea  with  Miss  Cassie  and  Miss  Maria, 
and  did  so,  but  when  I  arrived  the  whole  family  was 
there.  They  only  got  as  far  as  Rambouillet,  fifty  kilo- 
metres from  here,  when  the  car  broke  down  hopelessly. 
However,  it  was  decent  enough  to  do  so  close  to  the 
railway  station,  and  they  came  back  to  Versailles  by 
train.  So  their  trip  is  all  off.  They  did  not  seem  to 
mind  much,  and  took  it  very  cheerfully. 

There  were  two  Irish  ladies  there,  a  Miss  S.  and  a 
Miss  B.,  the  latter  a  tall,  rather  severe-looking  person 
in  black,  who  eats  nothing  but  raw  meat!  She  is  sup- 
posed to  be  able  to  assimilate  no  other  nourishment. 

And  that  is  all  there  is  to  tell  you. 

Wilcox,  to  cure  his  stammer,  used  to  read  aloud  to  his 
friend  Father  McGrain  in  India,  and  I  let  him  read  aloud 
to  me  for  half  an  hour  every  evening.  He  reads  wonder- 
fully well,  and  read  some  of  "Gracechurch"  to  me 
to-night.  The  only  mistake  he  made  was  to  pronounce 
the  name  of  Dives  to  rhyme  with  lives. 

Your  letter  of  Saturday  arrived  to-day.  I'm  glad  you 
liked  the  heast  cards.  I  also  thought  the  panther  more 
like  a  leopard:  but  all  his  names  and  titles  are  painted 
up  over  his  den,  and  he  is  some  sort  of  panther.  He  is 
not  very  large,  and  is  very  agile  and  playful,  with  graceful, 
rapid  movements:  but  when  he  sits  still  and  looks  out 
at  you  he  has  a  sulky,  ill-conditioned  face. 

I  saw  that  Stonehenge  had  been  sold  to  that  man,  and 
for  a  very  poor  price.  I  expect  Lady  Antrobus  will  be 
savage;  but  I  have  heard  nothing  of  her  for  ages.  I 
used  to  meet  Sir  Cosmo  at  Amesbury  Abbey;  he  is  not 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother       309 

at  all  like  his  brother,  being  tall  and  slim.  ...  I  wonder 
she  does  not  buy  West  Amesbury  House  (that  big  pic- 
turesque house  as  you  go  from  Amesbury  to  Wilsford); 
she  always  had  a  great  liking  for  it.  .  .  . 

If  my  very  small  birthday  present  arrives  before  the 
third,  please  keep  it  till  that  morning  and  don't  open  it 
till  then  —  on  your  honour  now! 

I  think  the  Pringles  do  know  the  Austin-Lees  already, 
but  not  very  intimately.  I  heard  from  Lady  A.-L.  to-day. 
Sir  Henry  is  with  her,  and  they  return  to  Paris  altogether 
next  week. 

I  must  dry  up  now,  and  think  of  dinner,  or  supper. 
It  is  rather  an  unconventional  meal,  never  soup,  sometimes 
fish,  sometimes  mutton  chops,  sometimes  cold  ham: 
never  pudding,  and  almost  always  fruit. 

Give  my  best  love  to  Christie  and  remember  me  duly 
to  the  Gaters. 

September  29,  191 5 

It  is  only  the  29th,  but  as  this  will  not  go  till  to-morrow 
I  think  I  had  better  be  getting  my  birthday  letter  ready. 
Beside  the  ring  I  only  send  you  a  pair  of  gloves,  and  in  a 
few  days  will  send  you  a  small  tip,  .  .  . 

I  had  to  go  to  Paris  to-day,  and  bought  the  gloves 
there:  they  are  6f,  because  in  the  shop  they  said  our 
English  sizes  are  slightly  larger  than  theirs,  so  that  6j 
in  French  sizes  is  equal  to  6^  in  English. 

It  was  a  cold,  drizzly  day  in  Paris,  and  I  stayed  no 
longer  than  I  could  help,  and  when  I  got  home  I  was 
deUghted  to  find  that  Wilcox  had  made  a  good  fire  in 
my  room:  the  first  I  have  had.  For  in  the  kitchen  we 
do  all  our  cooking  on  gas  stoves,  which  are  very  clean 
and  convenient. 

I  always  have  revelled  in  the  first  fire  of  autumn,  and 
this  one  made  my  room  look  uncommonly  cheerful  and 
homely. 


310       John  AyscougJjs  Letters  to  his  Mother 

September  30 

It  is  a  very  bright,  but  quite  cold  autumn  morning, 
and  much  more  like  very  late  October  than  the  last  day 
of  September.  I  have  just  received  your  letter  of  Mon- 
day, and  I  suppose  Alice  is  with  you  now,  as  she  was  to 
arrive  last  night.  I  do  hope  she  will  be  with  you  for 
your  birthday,  and  I  think  she  will,  as  you  said  she  was 
to  come  for  a  week. 

One  of  the  nuns  of  the  convent  where  I  say  Mass  every 
day  gave  me  a  book  written  by  one  of  their  English 
sisters,  and  I  send  it  on  to  you  as  part  of  your  birthday 
present.  I  do  trust  you  will  have  a  happy  birthday: 
I  shall  say  Mass  for  you  at  eight  o'clock,  and  in  the 
evening  at  8.30  will  drink  your  health  in  a  bottle  of  fizzy 
wine  that  must  be  bought  for  the  purpose:  there  is  no 
hope  of  my  being  with  you  this  year  for  your  birthday; 
but  things  are  going  so  well  for  us  now  that  there  really 
does  begin  to  be  hope  of  my  being  with  you  before  we 
are  any  of  us  much  older. 

Almost  all  my  Masses  now  are  said  for  (i)  you,  (2)  the 
blessing  of  God  upon  our  arms  and  those  of  our  Allies. 

I  have  a  very  large  number  of  wounded  to  attend  to, 
and  must  go  round  to  hospital  to  do  it. 

So  good-bye;  and  wishing  you  every  possible  happiness 
and  blessing  on  your  birthday,  and  during  your  eighty- 
seventh  year. 

Best  love  to  Christie  and  Alice. 

Thursday  Nighty  September  30,  191 5 

I  POSTED  my  meagre  birthday  presents,  a  little  ring, 
a  pair  of  gloves,  and  a  book,  to  you  to-day:  with  a  rather 
dull  letter.  As  I  think  it  very  likely  they  will  arrive  too 
soon,  I  wish  you  a  very,  very  happy  birthday  and  all  com- 
fort and  happiness  possible  till  we  are  together  again,  and 
after.     Ahce  was  to  arrive  last  evening,  and  as  I  think 


John  AyscougVs  Letters  to  his  Mother       311 

you  said  she  was  coming  for  a  week,  she  will  be  with 
you  on  your  birthday,  of  which  I  am  very  glad.  She  will 
cheer  you  two  old  parties  up,  and  have  plenty  to  tell  you. 

Our  hospital  is  now  crowded  and  so  I  am  busier  than 
usual,  but  of  eight  hundred  wounded  who  came  in  last 
(on  Tuesday  night)  there  was  not  one  stretcher  case  — 
they  were  all  able  to  walk  in. 

The  paper  to-day  says  that  the  German  losses,  on  this 
western  front,  are  120,000  in  killed,  wounded  and  pris- 
oners. If  we  keep  on  hammering  at  that  rate  the  war 
really  will  come  to  an  end  some  day,  and  Germany  will 
have  to  plead  for  peace. 

Talking  of  figures,  you  made  me  laugh  by  saying  that 
Mr.  Chubb  or  Jubb  or  Drubb  only  gave  6,000,600  pounds 
for  Stonehenge  —  only,  i.e..,  six  million  six  hundred  pounds! 
Not  so  bad,  either.  I  have  a  fire  again  to-night,  and  am 
revelling  in  it:  it  has  been  a  glorious  autumn  day,  bright 
sun,  but  cold  and  bracing  —  fancy  Versailles  bracing! 

We  have  had  no  frost,  but  the  cold  rains  have  finished 
the  really  splendid  long  border  here:  for  months  it  has 
been  a  blaze  of  colour  (like  my  face). 

Friday  Morning 

No  English  mail  in  yet,  so  no  letter  from  you  to  ac- 
knowledge; but  no  doubt  the  post  will  come  in  later  on 
in  the  day. 

Yesterday  someone  sent  me  two  bottles  of  old  whisky, 
which  arrived  smashed  to  atoms,  and  everyone  else's 
letter  smelling  vehemently  of  whisky. 

I  must  now  go  off  to  the  hospital. 

Friday  Night,  October  i,  191 5 

During  the  last  few  days,  since  the  big  advance  of 
our  troops,  our  mails  for  some  reason  have  been  coming 
in  very  irregularly,  and  to-day's  has  not  yet  arrived: 
but  no  doubt  it  will  crop  up  to-morrow  morning. 


312       John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

I  have  really  nothing  to  tell  you,  as  during  the  last 
day  or  two  I  have  been  too  busy  in  hospital  to  go  and 
see  anybody  or  do  anything. 

The  worst  of  this  exclusively  hospital  work,  and  work 
in  a  hospital  like  ours,  is  that  you  hardly  ever  get  to 
know  any  of  the  men  well,  as  they  are  seldom  kept  here 
many  days.  As  soon  as  they  can  possibly  be  moved 
they  are  packed  off  to  Rouen  or  England,  that  we  may 
have  their  beds  free  for  more  lately-wounded  men. 

In  the  street  to-day  I  met  Mile,  de  Missiessy,  who  told 
me  her  mother  has  been  ill  for  three  weeks  with  sciatica, 
and  is  to-day  rather  sad  because  her  elder  son  has  to 
join  his  regiment  at  Souchez  to-morrow,  the  place  where 
the  fighting  is  so  fierce.  She  begged  me  to  go  and  see 
Comtesse  de  Missiessy  to  cheer  her  up. 

Saturday  Morning 

The  same  post  brings  me  another  parcel  from  Father 
Wrafter,  a  very  nice  letter  from  Lady  O'Conor,  a  very 
cordial  and  affectionate  letter  from  the  Bishop,  and  a  lot 
of  others. 

Our  bright,  cold,  and  invigorating  autumn  weather 
continues  and  I  feel  very  fit  in  consequence:  for  the 
moment  I  have  no  cold  —  at  Versailles  I  am  generally 
armed  with  one  —  and  my  "periosteum"  has  given  over 
annoying  me. 

Sunday y  October  3,  191 5 

Many  Happy  Returns  of  the  Day!  I  said  Mass  for 
you  at  seven  thirty  this  morning  and  begged  Our  Lord 
to  give  you  a  happy,  cheerful  day,  and  to  grant  you  all 
your  prayers.  It  is  a  lovely  October  morning,  very 
bright,  with  a  disappearing  frost,  no  wind,  but  a  keen 
brisk  air. 

The  only  letter  I  got  to-day  —  a  very  rare  occurrence 
—  was  yours  of  Thursday:  a  very  cheery  one,  reflecting 
your  pleasure  at  Alice's  coming. 


John  AyscougWs  Letters  to  his  Mother       313 

I  am  so  glad  you  mutually  thought  each  other  looking 
well. 

Now,  my  dear,  I'm  going  for  a  little  stroll  in  the  parks, 
the  first  for  weeks  and  weeks. 

So  with  best  love  to  Christie  and  Alice  —  and  ten 
thousand  wishes  that  you  may  be  having  a  happy  birth- 
day. 

Tour  Birthday.,  at  night 

In  a  few  minutes  I  shall  go  down  to  dinner  to  drink 
your  health  in  a  specially  purchased  bottle  of  wine,  the 
only  cheap  thing  in  France  just  now;  any  reasonably 
cheap  eggs  explode  in  your  face,  and  any  cheap  butter  is 
appalling. 

This  morning  before  luncheon  I  went,  as  I  told  you  I 
was  going  to,  for  a  little  walk  in  the  park,  and  went  to 
the  Little  Trianon,  almost  wholly  empty  at  that  hour. 
The  day  was  lovely,  so  was  the  place,  and  I  enjoyed  my 
solitary  stroll  very  much.  Last  year  I  remember  going 
for  another  lonely  stroll  on  your  birthday  —  up  at  the 
front  then,  and  I  nearly  strolled  into  the  German  lines! 
It  was  just  such  a  day  as  to-day,  bright  and  fresh,  with 
the  smell  of  autumn  in  the  brisk  air. 

The  Trianon  glades  were  incomparably  lovelier  to-day 
than  last  time  I  was  there:  the  blackish-green  monotone 
of  summer  changed  into  many  varied  shades  of  yellow, 
citron-green,  and  russet:  and  the  ground  patched  with 
deep,  rustling  litter  of  fallen  leaves.  I  picked  a  few 
geranium  seeds  from  the  long  borders  in  front  of  the 
little  palace,  and  though  they  are  nothing  wonderful, 
they  will  interest  us  hereafter  as  having  come  from 
Marie  Antoinette's  garden. 

On  coming  home  I  found  a  note  from  the  Pringles 
asking  what  had  happened  to  me,  as  I  had  not  been  near 
them  since  Tuesday,  and  begging  me  to  go  round  this 
afternoon,  which  accordingly  I  did.  They  were  all  very 
cordial  and  friendly  and  glad  to  see  me:    and,  as  their 


314       John  Ayscough^s  Letters  to  his  Mother 

big  motor  has  been  put  right,  our  trip  to  Rambouillet  is 
to  come  off  to-morrow  afternoon,  if  it  is  a  day  Hke  to-day 
and  yesterday.  We  go  by  the  village  and  castle  of  Mont- 
fort,  whence  Simon  de  Montfort  came. 

After  tea  I  went  to  the  hospital  for  my  little  evening 
service:  and  then  instructed  a  convert;  and  finally  came 
home  and  am  writing  this. 

Monday  Night,  October  4,  191 5 

I  HAVE  a  little  more  than  usual  to  make  you  a  letter  of, 
because  to-day  our  trip  to  Rambouillet  really  came  off, 
and  most  delightful  it  was.  The  motor  came  to  the 
gate  at  two  o'clock,  and  inside  were  Miss  Maria,  Miss 
Maysie,  and  Miss  Susie  —  the  eldest  sister.  Miss  Cassie, 
and  the  brother,  Duncan,  stayed  at  home. 

The  whole  drive  of  about  twenty-five  miles  each  way 
was  through  a  perfectly  lovely  country  —  we  went  one 
way  and  came  back  another,  but  both  ways  were  equally 
beautiful.  It  is  nearly  all  forest,  but  not  flat  forest, 
deep  forest  valleys,  and  wooded  hills. 

We  went  by  Port  Royal,  and  got  out  of  the  motor  to 
visit  the  site  (there  are  scarcely  any  ruins)  of  the  famous 
Abbey  of  Port  Royal:  I  doubt  if  you  know  much  about 
it,  but  perhaps  you  may.  In  the  late  seventeenth 
century  and  early  eighteenth  the  nuns  of  Port  Royal 
were  very  famous,  chiefly  for  their  austerity  and  fervour, 
but  they  fell  into  bad  odour  with  Rome  and  the  rulers 
of  the  Church  on  account  of  a  suspicion  of  heresy  that 
attached  to  them  —  the  Jansenist  heresy,  which  showed 
itself  in  a  hard  and  narrow  rigorism,  and,  like  all  heretics, 
they  were  uncommonly  obstinate.  The  convent,  or 
Abbaye,  was  still  going  strong  at  the  Revolution,  during 
which  it  was  completely  destroyed:  so  completely  that 
little  remains  save  the  Colombiere,  a  great  dovecot,  of 
which  I  enclose  a  card,  and  another  of  the  remains  of 
the  kitchens,  etc. 


John  Ayscough^s  Letters  to  his  Mother       315 

The  situation  is  lovely,  sloping  meadows,  shut  in  by 
wooded  ridges  of  hills,  and  views  of  rich  water-meadows 
in  the  valley-bottom. 

After  getting  back  into  the  motor  we  went  through 
Dampierre,  a  village  belonging  to  the  Due  de  Luynes, 
with  his  big  chateau  nestled  down  in  it.  He  is  quite 
young,  and  I  meet  him  occasionally. 

At  Rambouillet  we  went  over  the  chateau,  which  is, 
of  course,  no  Versailles,  or  Fontainebleau,  but  is  fascinat- 
ing. A  very  ancient  chateau  —  a  fortified  manor,  not  a 
castle  —  was  replaced  by  another  chateau  in  the  four- 
teenth century:  of  the  older  chateau  there  remains  the 
massive,  squat  tower,  and  in  that  tower  Francis  I  died 
on  March  31,  1547. 

In  1706  Rambouillet  became  the  property  of  the  Comte 
de  Toulouse,  son  of  Louis  XIV  by  Madame  de  Montespan, 
and  he  had  all  the  rooms  lined  with  exquisitely  carved 
panelling,  as  you  can  see  in  the  pictures  I  send.     Louis 

XV  often  stayed  there,  and  hunted  in  the  forest.     Louis 

XVI  bought  the  place  and  it  became  a  royal  residence  — 
a  sort  of  shooting  lodge.  Napoleon  I  also  used  to  stay 
there,  and  his  bathroom  is  now  a  small  study:  he  had  it 
all  painted  in  Pompeian  style  by  Vasserot. 

Louis  XVIII  and  his  brother  Charles  X  often  stayed 
there  and  on  August  2,  1830,  Charles  X  signed  his  abdica- 
tion in  the  dining-room. 

Napoleon  I,  after  Waterloo,  came  there,  and  slept 
there  for  the  last  time  on  June  29,  1815  —  eleven  days 
after  Waterloo,  setting  forth  next  day  on  his  journey  to 
Brest  to  deliver  himself  to  the  English.  At  present  the 
chateau  is  the  country-house  of  the  President  of  the 
Republic.  The  cards  I  send  will  give  you  an  idea  of 
the  place  both  outside  and  in.  We  had  tea  in  the  little 
town,  and  motored  back  to  Chevreuse.  .  .  . 

Your  letter  of  Friday,  October  ist,  arrived  to-day, 
and  I  can  see  from  it  how  you  are  enjoying  Alice's  visit. 


3i6       John  Ays  cough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

Saturday,  lo  a.m.,  October  9,  191 5 

Your  very  cheery  welcome  letter  of  Wednesday  has 
just  arrived,  and  gave  me  great  satisfaction  because  it 
showed  you  were  in  good  health,  spirits,  and  courage 
when  you  wrote.  I'm  glad  you  asked  the  Geddeses  to 
tea,  and  found  them  pleasant  people.  .  .  . 

It  is  another  excellent  autumn  morning,  far  from 
warm,  but  cheerful  and  sunny.  I  have  been  saying  Mass 
for  the  soul  of  the  eldest  son  of  my  fish-wife.  When  I 
went  to  buy  my  fish  yesterday  I  found  the  poor  woman 
weeping  bitterly  over  her  mackerel  and  sprats  —  and 
guessed  only  too  well  what  had  happened,  for  I  knew 
she  had  three  sons  at  the  front.  The  eldest  had  just 
been  killed  at  Souchez  (where  Comtesse  de  Missiessy's 
son  is).  I  could  only  say  that  I  would  say  Mass  for  him 
to-day:    and  she,  and  two  of  his  sisters,  came  to  hear  it, 

I  went  to  see  Comtesse  de  Missiessy  yesterday,  but 
found  her  future  son-in-law's  motor  at  the  door,  and  he 
just  waiting  to  take  her  off  to  Paris  for  a  few  days'  change, 
so  I  did  not  go  in. 

I'm  in  dread  about  Bim  Tennant,  not  having  had  any 
reply  to  my  last  letter  (which  required  an  answer),  and 
knowing  that  the  whole  brigade  of  Guards  had  it  very 
hot  the  other  day:  the  Colonel  and  Second-in-Command 
of  the  Coldstreams  both  killed.  I  should  feel  it  very 
much  if  anything  happened  to  dear  Bim;  he  is  more 
fond  of  me  than  any  of  them  are,  and  he  is  a  very,  very 
nice  lad. 

We  have  had  some  sharp  work  on  our  Indian  frontier, 
up  north;  Mahometan  tribes  (usually  the  most  loyal) 
up  against  us,  and  we  have  had  heavy  losses,  fourteen 
thousand  in  one  place.  No  doubt  the  German  agents 
have  been  busy  spreading  tales  of  our  being  beaten  in 
this  war,  and  so  lowering  our  prestige.  Unfortunately, 
Herbert  Ward,  our  young  friend,  is  up  there,  and  I  fear 
his  mother  will  be  terribly  anxious  if  she  knows:  but  it  is 


John  AyscougJjs  Letters  to  his  Mother       317 

not  everyone  who  does  know  of  this  fighting  on  the 
Indian  frontier. 

I  am  going  to  tea  to-day  with  my  Pringles  and  always 
like  going  there. 

Please  thank  Winifred  for  her  very  great  kindness  and 
thoughtfulness  in  writing  me  enclosed:  nothing  could 
have  given  me  more  real  pleasure  than  what  she  says 
about  you. 

Saturday  Night 

As  I  wrote  to  you  this  morning  and  as  nothing  has 
happened  since,  not  even  a  shower  of  rain,  I  shan't  have 
much  to  say:  but  I  want  to  write  to-night  because  to- 
morrow I  shall  be  busy  in  the  hospital. 

I  went  to  tea  with  my  Pringles  who  were  all  very 
jolly;  the  tribe  of  dogs  met  me  at  the  door  and  were 
extremely  urbane,  only  jealous  of  one  another,  each 
wanting  to  be  petted.  After  tea,  in  the  drawing-room, 
something  excited  them,  and  my  old  friend  Koko  bit  me 
in  the  thigh  without  the  slightest  prejudice:  it  did  not 
hurt,  and  did  not  draw  blood,  but  of  course  I  felt  it;  he 
always  bites  whomsoever  is  nearest,  so  no  personal  compli- 
ment was  intended. 

On  Monday  I  am  lunching  there  and  we  are  to  motor 
to  St.  Germain. 

Our  diplomacy  in  Greece  and  the  Balkan  Courts  seems 
to  have  been  rather  innocent  and  ineffective.  Anyway 
I  trust  King  Ferdinand  may  meet  with  the  due  reward 
of  his  Judas  policy,  and  that  the  Greeks  may  not  fall 
into  the  folly  of  making  friends  with  the  friends  of  Turkey. 
If  the  Germans  detach  too  many  men  for  the  Balkan 
adventure  they  may  find  themselves  pushed  pretty  hard 
on  the  Western  front  and  the  Russian,  too. 


3i8       John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

Monday,  10.30  a.m.,  October  11,  1915 

Yesterday  I  had  your  very  cheery  and  comfortable 
letter  of  Thursday,  and  also  two  copies  of  St.  Joseph's 
Lilies.  Certainly  the  "appreciation"  ought  to  satisfy 
you,  if  unbridled  eulogy  of  J.  A.  is  what  you  want!  I 
liked  all  the  literary  part  very  well,  but  the  personal 
part  at  the  beginning,  about  my  heroic  services  out  here 
(at  Versailles!!!)  made  me  feel  rather  silly.  However,  I 
was  at  the  front  once! 

After  luncheon  I  went  for  quite  a  long  walk  in  the 
parks,  at  the  back  of  them,  where  there  are  no  formal 
walks  or  statues,  or  fountains,  but  natural  woods  and 
glades. 

It  was  quite  lovely  in  those  woods,  and  I  did  so  much 
wish  you  could  be  there.  The  hghts  among  the  trees 
and  glades  were  exquisite,  and  the  carpet  of  fallen  leaves 
made  a  comfortable  rustle  as  one  walked.  .  .  . 

Monday  Evening,  October  11,  191 5 

This  morning  I  lunched  with  the  Pringles,  and  after- 
wards we  all  motored  to  St.  Germain,  and  thence  on  to 
Poissy,  of  which  place  I  enclose  half  a  dozen  cards.  The 
church  is  very  fine,  and  in  it  is  the  old  font  in  which  St. 
Louis  (King  Louis  IX)  was  baptised.  I  do  not  remember 
the  exact  date,  but  I  should  say  it  was  seven  and  a  half 
centuries  ago.  We  walked  down  to  the  bridge,  of  which 
you  have  a  card  here  enclosed,  very  fine,  and  with  ex- 
quisite views  of  the  river.  It  was  a  mild,  misty  after- 
noon, but  the  mist  did  not  hide  the  woods,  and  only 
made  them  more  beautiful.  We  walked  back  to  the 
church,  where  we  had  left  the  car,  and  drove  home  by 
St.  Germain  again,  where  we  again  got  out  to  walk  on 
the  famous  terrace,  of  which  I  sent  you  a  card  at  the  time 
of  my  former  visit  to  St.  Germain.  The  view  from  it 
across  the  Seine  valley  is  quite  superb,  and  the  terrace 


John  Ayscough^s  Letters  to  his  Mother       319 

is  over  a  mile  and  a  half  long:  there  our  poor  exiled 
James  II  used  to  walk  and  think  of  England  —  as  I  do! 

At  one  end  of  it  is  the  vieux  chateau  of  St.  Germain 
(not  the  great  chateau  of  which  you  have  cards)  where 
Louis  XIV  was  born. 

When  we  got  back  to  Versailles  we  all  went  to  a 
restaurant,  where  I  treated  our  party  to  tea  and  toast 
—  quite  English  toast. 

To-morrow  there  is  to  be  an  interesting  concert  in  the 
chateau  here,  in  the  Galerie  de  Batailles,  and  of  course 
the  Pringles  have  taken  a  ticket  for  me,  too:  and  I  am 
to  go  to  tea  with  them  on  Thursday.  They  are  really 
the  most  hospitable  and  kind  creatures,  and  they  are  an 
immense  acquisition. 

I  only  got  your  letter  of  Friday  when  I  got  in  here; 
You  must  not  want  to  exterminate  all  the  Bulgarians! 
but  you  may  exterminate  their  hateful  king  as  soon  as 
you  like.  He  is  a  German,  and  a  very  bad  one,  base, 
treacherous,  totally  without  heart  or  conscience,  and 
eaten  up  with  ambition.  I  am  sure  he  imagines  that 
Germany  and  Austria  will  make  him  Balkan  Emperor. 

He  is,  of  course,  a  cousin  of  our  King,  though  not  a 
very  near  one  —  and  you  will  remember  another  cousin 
of  his.  Prince  Leopold,  who  came  to  see  us  at  Plymouth. 
His  mother.  Princess  Clementine,  was  a  daughter  of  Louis 
Philippe,  and  as  great  a  schemer  as  her  father. 

I  must  write  other  letters. 

Tuesday  Night:  no,  Wednesday  Morning; 

It  is  past  twelve  and  a.m. 

I  DULY  received  to-day  your  letter  of  Sunday. 

Yesterday  I  went  with  the  Pringles  to  a  very  interest- 
ing concert  given  (i)  to  entertain  wounded  soldiers;  (2)  and 
also  to  raise  money  for  the  Versailles  war  hospitals:  so, 
of  course,  the  wounded  men  did  not  pay,  but  everyone 
else  did. 


320       John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

It  was  the  same  sort  of  thing  as  the  entertainment  at 
the  Trocadero,  which  I  described  to  you  long  ago,  but  on 
a  much  smaller  scale.  Still  the  "encadrement"  was 
more  interesting,  for  yesterday's  concert  was  given  in  the 
vast  Galerie  de  Batailles  of  the  chateau  here,  a  splendid 
and  truly  regal  hall  lined  with  colossal  pictures  of  French 
victories.  I  enclose  a  copy  of  the  programme,  as  it  is  a 
sort  of  little  memento. 

The  concert  lasted  from  two  till  five  thirty!  Then  I 
took  the  Pringles  to  tea  at  a  nice  little  tea-shop  we  have 
discovered:  then  I  came  in  and  began  the  instalment  of 
"French  and  English"  for  the  November  Month. 

To-day,  Wednesday,  I  have,  after  luncheon,  to  attend 
the  funeral  (not  to  conduct  it)  of  the  officer  commanding 
the  Kings'  Own  Scottish  Borderers,  Colonel  Verner,  who 
died  in  our  hospital  from  his  wounds,  on  Sunday  night; 
I  remember  him  at  Plymouth  as  a  subaltern. 

Thursday,  9.45  a.m.,  October  14,  191 5 

Wilcox  has  just  gone  round  to  hospital  for  the  letters, 
so  I  do  not  know  yet  whether  there  is  one  from  you  for 
me,  or  no:  there  almost  always  is.  Yesterday,  imme- 
diately after  luncheon,  I  had,  as  I  told  you,  to  attend  the 
funeral  of  Colonel  Verner,  who  commanded  the  King's 
Own  Scottish  Borderers,  and  died  on  Sunday  night  from 
his  wounds.  The  funeral  started  from  the  hospital  and 
was  a  fine  and  touching  sight.  The  French  sent  a  double 
squadron  of  dragoons,  besides  many  officers;  there  were 
all  our  officers  who  could  possibly  be  spared  from  duty  at 
the  hospital,  and  about  seventy  men.  The  French 
uniforms  were  splendid,  and  made  a  fine  contrast  with 
our  sober  khaki. 

We  marched  very  slowly,  all  through  the  town  to  the 
Gonard  Cemetery,  Mrs.  Verner  walking  all  the  way  just 
behind  the  hearse.  Her  son  (wounded)  walked  at  her 
side,    also    her    mother    and    sister-in-law.     These    chief 


John  AyscougFs  Letters  to  his  Mother       321 

mourners  had  a  sort  of  guard  of  honour  of  French 
dragoons.  At  the  grave  the  poor  widow  stood  by  her 
lad's  side,  and  slipped  her  hand  in  his:  they  were  both 
of  them  very  simple  and  quiet.  Only  as  the  coffin  was 
lowered  did  I  see  her  lift  her  eyes  as  if  trying  to  force 
back  her  tears,  and  a  sort  of  spasm  held  her  very  pale 
face. 

There  were  numbers  of  French,  both  at  the  graveyard 
and  along  the  route  to  it,  and  I  think  the  wonderful 
sympathy  and  respect  shown  comforted  the  poor  woman. 

This  morning  when  I  got  up  at  quarter  to  six  there 
was  a  thick  fog,  but  it  has  gone,  and  I  should  not  wonder 
if  we  had  a  sunny  day.  The  Pringles  have  a  Beast 
Party  to-day,  to  polish  off  all  the  callers  whom  they 
don't  much  mind  missing.  They  apologised  for  asking 
me  to  come  and  help,  and  seemed  quite  grateful  when 
I  said,  "Of  course."  So  handing  tea-cups  will  be  my 
afternoon's  occupation  and  F.'s  too.  His  little  friend, 
the  Duchess  of  Trevise,  was  next  me  at  the  concert  on 
Tuesday,  but  we  only  beamed  at  each  other,  as  French 
people  do  not  chatter  and  whisper  throughout  a  concert. 

A  Frenchwoman  came  to  me  and  told  me  that  a  certain 
soldier  at  our  hospital  was  very  eager  to  marry  her.  I 
saw  him  and  said  nonchalantly  (quite  as  if  I  knew)y 
"But  you  are  married.  .  .  ."  He  at  once  admitted  it, 
and  swore  he  had  never  meant  to  deceive  Mademoiselle 
G.,  that  he  merely  wished  for  the  pleasure  of  walking 
out  with  her,  etc.     So  that  little  plot  is  cracked. 

I  shall  presently  be  sending  back  the  two  Thackeray 
books  you  sent  and  with  them  some  packets  of  letters. 
So  don't  be  disappointed,  thinking  it  is  a  nice  present! 

I  must  dry  up. 

Friday y  6  a.m.,  October  15,  191 5 

I  WOKE  about  three  o'clock  with  horrible  neuralgia; 
and,  as  it  got  worse  every  quarter  of  an  hour,  I  determined 


322       John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

at  four  o'clock  to  try  a  cure  —  the  opposite  of  a  "rest 
cure"  —  and  got  up,  dressed,  went  down  to  the  kitchen 
and  worked!  —  washed  up  crockery,  cleaned  some  sauce- 
pans, cut  up  and  cleaned  vegetables  for  soup,  put  the 
soup  on  to  simmer,  etc.!!!  and  it  was  a  complete  success: 
the  neuralgia  is  almost  gone,  and  now  I  am  sitting  down 
to  complete  the  cure  by  writing  to  you. 

It  is  just  light,  though  not  light  enough  to  write  with- 
out a  lamp,  and  there  is  a  dense  white  fog,  as  there  was 
yesterday  at  dawn;  but  yesterday  it  ended  in  a  very  sunny 
day,  and  I  expect  it  will  be  the  same  to-day. 

Yesterday  afternoon  I  went  to  tea  with  the  Pringles, 
who  had  a  regular  tea-party;  of  course  it  was  much  less 
pleasant  than  when  they  were  by  themselves;  the  guests 
blocked  themselves  up  in  corners,  and  would  not  budge, 
and  there  was  no  general  talk  or  moving  about.  Miss 
Maria  said  to  me,  "I  wish  one  might  shake  them."  I 
said,  "I  know  all  about  tea-parties,  and  your  mistake 
was  in  giving  them  chairs:  my  mother  always  used  to  try 
and  make  me  do  the  same  thing,  but  once  you  let  chairs 
into  an  At  Home  tea-party  you're  done  for:  the  people 
glue  themselves  to  them  and  will  neither  move  about  nor 
talk  to  anyone  but  the  accomplice  on  the  chair  adjacent." 

I  got  your  dear  letter  of  Monday  yesterday;  you  seem 
to  get  mine  much  quicker  than  I  get  yours,  at  least  it  is 
so  sometimes,  for  the  one  I  wrote  on  last  Thursday 
morning,  as  I  was  starting  for  Paris  with  Wilcox,  you 
got  on  Saturday  afternoon. 

This  letter  of  yours  encloses  Mr.  Gater's  note  thanking 
you  for  the  wine:  I  am  very  glad  you  sent  him  that 
gift,  for  he  seems  very  much  to  appreciate  it,  and  its 
being  a  naval  prize  makes  it  interesting. 

Now  I  must  do  my  real  dressing  and  shaving;  my 
four  o'clock  in  the  morning  toilette  was  "provisional," 
like  a  revolutionary  government. 


John  Ayscough^s  Letters  to  his  Mother       323 

Saturday y  11  a.m.,  October  16,  191 5 

I  FEEL  quite  in  the  mood  for  writing  a  long  letter,  but 
it  is  eleven  o'clock  and  I  must  go  round  to  hospital,  so 
my  letter  must  be  put  off  till  to-night. 

Saturday  Evenings  October  16,  191 5 

This  morning  I  had  no  time  to  do  more  than  write  to 
say  I  had  no  time  to  write!  So  now  I  will  try  and  make 
up.  I  went  off  to  the  hospital  and  saw  a  lot  of  new 
arrivals  and  then  came  home  to  luncheon,  after  which 
I  met  F,  at  the  gate  of  the  Grand  Trianon  in  the  park, 
where  the  Misses  Pringle  (or  rather  three  of  them,  for 
Miss  Maysie  has  a  cold  and  "kept  house")  were  to  meet 
us  and  go  for  a  long  walk.  However,  only  Miss  Maria 
(and  three  dogs)  turned  up,  as  Mr,  Pringle  had  made 
two  of  them  go  out  with  him  in  the  car.  So  we  went  for 
a  little  walk,  in  the  Little  Trianon,  which  was  looking 
perfectly  exquisite.  The  trees  have  turned  the  most 
lovely  colour,  and  their  pictures  in  the  lakes,  and  in  the 
little  artificial  river,  were  almost  more  perfect  than 
themselves:  and  there  was  a  tender,  opal-like  "atmo- 
sphere," not  in  the  least  a  mist,  but  just  an  effect  of 
bluish  pink  between  the  more  distant  belts  of  trees  and 
the  eye. 

Tou  would  have  longed  to  paint  dozens  of  pictures  of 
it  all,  and  there  are  inexhaustible  pictures  there.  After 
our  walk  we  returned  to  the  Pringle  House  and  had  tea; 
the  motorists  had  not  returned,  but  we  found  Miss  Maysie 
in  the  drawing-room.  Almost  everyone  here  seems 
armed  with  a  cold  just  now,  including  poor  Mr.  Ayscough, 
whose  snufflings  make  me  very  uncomfortable.  I  am 
sure  it  is  the  relaxing  air  of  Versailles  that  makes  one  so 
apt  to  catch  cold,  but  if  one  hints  to  any  native  that  it 
is  relaxing,  he  almost  swallows  one,  cold  and  all. 

Lady  Austin-Lee  was  out  when  F.  and  I  called  there 


324       John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

yesterday,  but  this  morning  I  had  a  note  from  her  begging 
me  to  go  to  luncheon  to-morrow:  that,  unfortunately, 
I  cannot  do,  as  I  am  engaged  to  lunch  with  the  chaplain 
of  the  convent  where  F.  is  in  hospital. 

Yesterday  he  and  I  went  into  Paris,  where  I  had  to 
buy  two  more  helmets  at  Lady  Glenconner's  request, 
one  for  a  son  of  her  sister.  Lady  Wemyss  —  who  was 
Lady  Elcho  when  you  met  her  long  ago:  since  then  her 
very  old  father-in-law  has  died,  and  her  husband  has 
become  Lord  Wemyss:  the  other  helmet  is  for  another 
brother-officer  of  Bim's,  Osbert  Sitwell. 

Also  I  wanted  to  buy  the  stockings,  muff  and  "stole" 
for  you. 

I  did  buy  all  these  things,  and  to-day  sent  off  your 
things  which  I  hope  will  arrive  in  due  course.  I  hope 
you  will  think  the  fur  —  a  soft  grey  —  pretty,  and  it 
feels  soft  and  comfortable:  of  course  it  is  not  one  of  the 
costly  furs,  for,  though  you  deserve  the  best,  I  could  not 
afford  them.  The  stole  is  large  and  broad,  and  should 
keep  you  warm.  I  think  the  soft  slaty  grey  of  this  fur 
will  suit  you  better  than  black  or  the  yellowish  sorts  of 
furs. 

After  our  shopping  we  called  on  Lady  Austin-Lee, 
and,  she  being  out,  we  went  then  to  the  Faubourg  St. 
Honore,  to  call  on  Comtesse  de  Sercey,  a  great  friend  of 
Lady  O'Conor,  whom  I  have  been  promising  to  call  upon 
ever  since  I  arrived  here.  She  was  out,  but  her  sister. 
Mile.  d'Angleau,  was  in,  and  we  stayed  about  half 
an  hour.  She  is  a  clever,  amiable  person,  with  almost 
overwhelming  conversational  powers. 

And  that,  I  think,  is  all  I  have  to  tell  you  of  my  doings. 

Your  letter  of  Wednesday  came  this  morning  in  which, 
oddly  enough,  you  mention  Harold  Skyrme's  being  in  the 
"Warspite"  and  by  the  same  post  came  a  letter  from 
him.  He  had  had  a  few  days'  leave  which  he  spent  in 
the  bosom  of  his  family,  the  whole  bosom  assembling  at 
Cardiff  for  the  purpose. 


John  Ayscough^s  Letters  to  his  Mother       325 

All  letters  from  neutral  countries  like  Holland  would 
be  sure  to  be  opened  by  the  censor;  my  letters  to  you 
never  are. 

is  quite  civil  to  me  these  days.     He  must  be  feeling 

out  of  sorts.  You  must  understand  that  his  poHteness 
is  like  anybody  else's  rudeness.  I  must  stop  now  to 
write  to  Father  Wrafter:  he  has  got  his  wish  at  last  and 
is  coming  out  to  the  front  as  a  chaplain,  and  his  last  act 
is  to  send  me  a  beautiful  warm  new  rug  and  a  big  piece 
of  Irish  bacon! 

Monday y  12  noon,  October  18,  191 5 

I  CAN  only  write  very  hurriedly:  last  night  when  I  got 
in  from  church  I  had  a  ruck  of  little  things  to  do,  one 
after  another,  till  it  was  bed-time;  and  this  morning, 
since  Mass,  I  have  been  really  very  busy. 

It  is  St.  Luke's  Day,  and  is  a  regular  St.  Luke's  summer- 
day,  very  sunny,  rather  still,  and  rather  cold.  Just  as  I 
was  vesting  for  Mass  this  morning  I  heard  that  my  late 
landlord  here,  Beranek,  is  dead:  so  I  offered  the  Mass 
for  him.  He  was  in  a  very  precarious  state  before  his 
arrest,  spitting  blood,  and  so  on;  and  all  the  worry  of 
his  imprisonment  no  doubt  told  against  him.  I  believe 
he  has  been  ill  almost  ever  since  his  arrest:  and  his  death 
hardly  surprises  me. 

Yesterday  I  was  very  busy:  but  had  to  lunch  at  F.*s 
convent,  a  party  of  five  —  myself,  F.,  the  chaplain  of 
the  convent,  a  Canon  of  Versailles,  and  the  Duke  of 
Trevise,  grandson  of  Napoleon's  Marshal  Mortier.  The 
luncheon  was  rather  stodgy  and  overpowering;  but 
everybody  was  very  nice  and  cordial:  only  my  cold  was 
at  its  snuffly-est  stage  and  I  felt  incapable  of  making 
myself  agreeable.  I  walked  home  to  shake  down  the 
food! 

I  must  dash  round  to  hospital:  so  with  best  love  to 
Christie. 


326       John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

Tuesday,  11.30  a.m.,  October  19,  191 5 

You  mentioned  in  the  letter  I  had  from  you  yesterday 
that  you  had  been  two  days  without  a  letter  from  me  — 
but  then  you  had  twice  lately  mentioned  having  two 
letters  from  me  in  one  day,  and  it  is  inevitable  that  if 
two  of  my  letters  arrive  together  there  must  be  a  day 
without  any  —  if  you  have  two  letters  on  the  same  day 
'twill  then  mean  that  two  days  with  no  letter  must 
follow.  .  .  . 

I  fancy  that  I  and  Wilcox  between  us  live  on  less  than 
one  English  servant,  i.e.,  we  live  on  less  than  five  shillings 
a  day  between  us,  and  that  includes  not  only  food,  but 
drink,  lighting  (petroleum,  etc.). 

I  enclose  some  eucalyptus  leaves  off  one  of  the  many 
trees  here:  if  you  get  a  cold  have  them  boiled  in  a  small 
saucepan,  and  after  sweetening  with  honey,  or  treacle  or 
sugar,  drink  the  "tisane"  as  hot  as  you  can  take  it, 
after  you  are  in  bed.  It  is  excellent.  You  should  repeat 
the  dose  every  night  till  you  are  cured. 

Yesterday and  I  took  Miss  Susie  and  Miss  Maria 

Pringle  for  a  long  walk  in  the  wild  parts  of  the  park 
behind  the  Trianons  in  the  direction  of  St.  Cyr.  It  was 
a  perfect  St.  Luke's  summer  day,  and  the  trees  and 
glades  were  too  lovely:  I  have  never  seen  such  exquisite 
autumn  colouring,  and  yet  very  English.  The  trees 
were  all  our  own  sort  of  trees,  elms,  chestnuts,  beeches, 
oaks,  alders,  etc. 

Then  we  went  back  and  had  tea,  after  which  I  had 
church  at  the  hospital. 

I  must  stop.     I  can  send  heaps  more  eucalyptus  leaves. 

Thursday  Morning,  10  a.m.,  October  21,  191 5 

Versailles  in  the  mornings  at  this  season  is  hke  a 
city  in  the  clouds.  I  suppose  all  the  thick  mists  come 
from  the  forests  with  which  we  are  surrounded  for  miles 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother       327 

in  every  direction.  To-day  the  fog  is  the  densest  we 
have  had,  but  I  expect  about  noon  it  will  yield  and  turn 
to  a  soft,  sunny  afternoon. 

I  had  your  letter  of  Monday  just  now,  in  which  you 
tell  me  of  Winifred's  Sunday  afternoon  visit:  I  am  sure 
you  enjoyed  the  quiet  chat  with  her. 

Yesterday  I  went  to  tea  with  the  Pringles,  who  had 
half  expected  a  tea-party,  but  the  other  guests  weren't 
able  to  come  (except  one)  and  I  was  delighted.  That 
one  was  a  young  Anglican  chaplain,  a  tall,  clean  pink 
young  divine,  with  an  air  of  always  saying  "Dearly 
beloved  Brethren." 

The  eldest  Miss  P.  said,  "I  know  you  are  always 
sending  your  mother  post-cards  .  .  .  would  you  send 
her  these?  They  may  interest  her  because  she  knows 
America,  and  I  think  they  are  pretty."  So  I  send  them 
on,  though  of  course  Pennsylvania  is  very  far  from  your 
part  of  America.  The  Pringles'  mother  was  a  Penn- 
sylvanian,  from  Philadelphia,  a  Miss  Duncan,  also  of  a 
good  Scotch  family,  and  I  fancy,  from  all  I  hear  them 
say,  very  charming,  refined,  and  clever. 

How  clever  you  are  and  economical!  I  am  sure  the 
tea-jacket  and  lilac  gown  together  are  charming:  I  wish 
/  could  make  new  tunics  out  of  old  breeches! 

I  must  dry  up  because  I  have  nothing  more  to  tell  you. 

Thursday  Nighty  October  21,  191 5 

I  HAVE  just  come  in  from  a  long  and  delightful  motor- 
excursion  with  the  Pringles.  They  picked  me  up  here 
at  two  and  we  went  by  St.  Cyr,  through  Trappes,  Houdan, 
etc.,  to  Montfort,  where  we  got  out  to  visit  the  church 
and  then  the  ruins  of  the  castle. 

The  church  has  a  very  ugly,  late  (seventeenth  century) 
facade  in  a  villainous  pseudo-classic  taste:  but  the  east 
end  is  lovely,  with  beautiful  flying  buttresses.  I  enclose 
a  few  cards,  one  of  the  approach  to  the  little  town  from 


328       John  Ayscougb's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

the  south  —  on  which  I  have  put  "A":  one  of  the 
approach  from  the  west,  with  the  castle  ruins  to  the  right, 
marked  "B":  one  of  the  south  side  of  the  church, 
marked  "C":  one  of  a  street  in  the  town,  marked 
"D"  :  one  of  the  beautiful  east-end  and  apse  of  the 
church,  marked  "E, "  and  the  one  marked  "F"  illus- 
trates one  of  a  series  of  splendid  stained-glass  windows 
running  almost  all  round  the  church  —  not  early  glass, 
but  sixteenth  century  Renaissance,  quite  superb  of  its 
sort. 

The  card  marked  "G"  (at  the  back)  is  of  the  ruins  of 
the  castle.  The  situation  of  the  castle  reminds  one  of 
Arques,  but  the  ruins  consist  of  the  tower  here  shown 
that  only  dates  from  1498,  the  lower  donjon-tower,  and 
a  few  detached  lumps  of  rubble  masonry  —  nothing  near 
so  fine  as  Arques.  The  great  interest  of  Montfort  is  its 
being  the  domain  of  the  great  Simon  de  Montfort,  so 
famous  in  our  own  history. 

After  leaving  it  we  came  home  a  different  way  by 
Mantes,  a  much  more  considerable  place  with  a  cathedral; 
but  we  were  so  late,  and  the  fog  was  getting  so  thick, 
that  we  only  stayed  three  or  four  minutes  to  admire  the 
cathedral,  and  came  on:  so  I  could  not  get  you  any  cards. 

The  drive  was  all  through  a  beautiful  country,  very 
"accidente,"  narrow  valleys,  so  close  together  as  almost 
to  seem  like  the  furrows  of  some  Titanic  ploughman, 
and  all  bristling  with  woods,  whose  trees  were  of  every 
conceivable  colour,  russet,  carmine,  scarlet,  orange, 
lemon,  melon-rind,  and  grey-green. 

We  came  home  through  St.  Germain,  passing  close 
by  the  palace  where  James  II  held  his  exiled  court:  it 
stood  up  pallid  in  a  shroud  of  mist. 

And  that  is  all  of  the  day's  doings  that  gives  me  any- 
thing to  write  about. 

Shan't  we  (F.  and  I)  miss  the  Pringles  when  they  go 
south?  They  are  so  boundlessly  hospitable  and  kind, 
and  they  are  themselves  so  nice:    always  cheery  and  full 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother       329 

of  a  piquant  sprightliness,  chaffing  each  other  remorse- 
lessly all  the  time.  I  think  they  are  the  very  best  sort 
of  Americans,  really  well-born  and  absolutely  well-bred: 
the  mixture  of  the  South  Carolinian  father  and  Penn- 
sylvanian  mother  is  most  agreeable.  You  know  Phila- 
delphia, whence  their  mother  came,  is  supposed  to  be 
the  most  aristocratic  city  in  America.  The  Americans 
say,  "Boston  for  what  you  know:  Philadelphia  for  who 
you  are;    and  New  York  for  —  what  you've  got." 

A  certain  Norman  Marquis  found  me  out  the  other  day 
and  bored  me  to  death  over  the  Normans  and  their 
grandeur,  and  our  own  direct  descent  from  the  reigning 
family  of  Normandy:  he  wanted  me  to  take  part  in  a 
great  Norman  reunion,  and  I  flatly  refused,  saying  I 
had  very  different  work  here,  and  dropped  him  and  his 
Normans  promptly. 

Saturday  Mornings  7.35,  October  23,  191 5 

I  AM  just  beginning  a  letter  to  you  before  going  across 
to  the  Hermitage  convent  to  say  Mass.  It  is  a  very 
cold,  bright,  frosty  morning,  after  a  night  of  clear,  bitter 
cold  moonlight. 

I  am  to  meet  F.  about  11.30  and  we  are  to  go  in  to 
Paris  together  to  lunch  at  Lady  Austin-Lee's. 

Yesterday  I  did  nothing  all  day  but  the  following. 
At  a  quarter  to  eight  I  said  Mass:  at  nine  buried  a  poor 
soldier;  then  worked  in  hospital  till  1.30.  Then  wrote 
letters  till  tea:  then  evening  service  at  hospital,  from 
5.30  to  6,45,  then  home  to  say  "office,"  write  letters,  etc., 
till  bed-time. 

I  had  two  letters  from  you  yesterday,  one  written  on 
Tuesday  morning  and  one  on  Tuesday  afternoon.  In 
the  second  you  announce  safe  arrival  of  the  furs  and 
stockings:  I  am  quite  delighted  that  they  please  you  so 
much.  I  hoped  that  you  would  like  them,  and  really  I 
thought   this   grey   Siberian   fur   prettier   than   some   far 


330       John  Ayscough^s  Letters  to  his  Mother 

more  costly.     Also  I  thought  that  the  stockings  seemed 
warm  and  comfortable. 


10  A.M. 

I  HAVE  said  Mass,  breakfasted,  and  received  my 
letters,  including  yours  of  Wednesday  and  one  from 
Winifred  Gater. 

The  furs  and  stockings  seem  to  have  been  a  most 
successful  present:  and  I  am  very  glad  you  think  the 
latter  good  quality  —  I  think  French  people  think  more 
of  quality  and  less  of  "cheapness"  than  w^e  do.  But 
these  stockings  were  anything  but  dear,  3  fr.  50,  a  pair, 
I  think,  i.e.^  about  2/8. 

Among  Father  Wrafter's  recent  gifts  to  myself  is  a 
very  soft  and  warm  rug  —  about  the  same  quality  as 
the  one  Lady  Glenconner  gave  you,  though  of  a  different 
colour:    and  it  makes  me  very  comfortable. 

To-morrow  I  have  to  go  to  tea  with  the  Pringles  to 
meet  Madame  de  Montebello. 

Yesterday  I  absent-mindedly  sallied  forth  in  Mack 
trousers  and  khaki  tunic.  I  met  Wilcox,  who  said,  grimly, 
"Well,  Monsignor,  I'm  glad  you've  got  any  on,  you're 
that  absent-minded." 

All  the  same  I'm  not  a  patch  on  him  for  up  in  the 
moon-ness.  He  is  capable  of  putting  the  meat  to  roast 
in  my  bed. 

Sunday y  October  24,  191 5 

Yesterday  I  went  in  to  Paris  to  lunch  with  the  Austin- 
Lees,  whom  I  had  not  seen  since  early  in  September. 
There  we  met  also  Comtesse  d'Osmoy,  who  was  passing 
a  few  days  in  Paris  —  her  home  is  far  away  near  the 
sea  in  Normandy,  in  a  big  chateau  called  Plessis.  She 
was  very  nice,  as  she  always  is,  and  seemed  delighted  to 
see  me  again.  She  enquired  keenly  after  you;  your 
miniature  made  such  an  impression  on  her! 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother       331 

Lady  Austin-Lee  looked  younger  and  prettier  than 
ever  in  black  —  mourning  for  the  only  relative  she  had 
in  France,  who  died  the  other  day  at  Orleans.   .  .  . 

The  fourth  guest  was  a  very  young  American  man 
called  Scott,  from  Rome,  where  he  has  lived  almost  his 
whole  life  with  his  mother,  a  very  nice  fellow. 

Lgot  back  just  in  time  for  my  evening  service  at  5.30 
in  the  hospital.     And  that  is  my  day  for  yesterday. 

To-day,  Sunday,  I  am  not  very  fit,  a  sort  of  gastric 
bother:  ^  and  a  scandalous  tongue!  (I  don't  mean  as 
talking  goes,  but  to  look  at.) 

I  was  going  to  the  Pringles,  this  afternoon,  but  don't 
feel  up  to  it.  .  .  . 

Monday,  1.30  p.m.,  October  25,  191 5 

It  is  a  very  sour,  cross-looking  day,  with  very  little 
light  and  no  warmth;  no  breeze,  but  only  a  dank  emana- 
tion from  the  sodden  woods  —  the  sort  of  day  that 
makes  evening,  with  drawn  curtains  and  lighted  lamps, 
very  welcome. 

I  am  much  better  than  I  was  yesterday,  and  have  just 
eaten  an  excellent  luncheon.  By  to-morrow  I  shall  be 
quite  well:  but  I  had  a  regular  chill  of  the  liver — a 
thing  I  often  do  get  at  home. 

After  Mass  yesterday  I  came  home  and  went  back  to 
bed,  and  stayed  there,  and  ate  nothing;  which  treatment 
brought  about  the  desired  results. 

I  hope  you  will  not  try  to  economise  over  fires  and 
catch  a  chill. 

I  heard  from  Roger  to-day  and  send  the  letter  on  to 
you:  also  Mrs.  Newland's.  And  I  had  yours  of  Friday, 
acknowledging  receipt  of  some  eucalyptus  leaves. 

I  must  stop  or  I  shall  miss  the  mail. 

^  It  was  not  "  gastric,"  but  much  more  serious.  He  steadily  became  more 
ill  till  after  his  operation  in  January.      CEd.] 


332       John  Ayscough^s  Letters  to  his  Mother 

Tuesday,  ii  a.m.,  October  26,  191 5 

I  RECEIVED  this  morning  your  letter  telling  of  the 
arrival  of  the  five  officers.  I  am  delighted  to  hear  that 
you  made  them  welcome,  but  I  don't  think  you  would 
be  likely  to  do  anything  else.  If  the  house  of  one  officer 
in  the  army  is  not  open  in  war  time  to  other  officers  I 
don't  know  what  house  should  be.  If  any  more  come, 
please  think  of  them  as  if  they  were  me,  and  let  them  be 
treated  as  you  would  like  me  to  be  treated,  if  cold,  tired, 
and  hungry,  I  knocked  at  any  door  for  hospitality, 

I  am  quite  well  again  now  after  my  gastric  attack  of 
Sunday;  and  I  am  going  in  to  Paris  for  a  drive  with  the 
Pringles  in  their  motor-car  at  1.30.  So  I  must  bustle  up 
as  I  have  not  done  my  hospital  yet  —  it  is  very  empty 
for  the  moment. 

It  is  a  rather  unpleasant  day,  raw,  and  with  a  biting 
wind;  but  even  as  I  write  the  sun  comes  out  to  do  his 
best  for  us. 

I  must  really  be  off.     So  good-bye. 

Wednesday,  11.30  a.m.,  October  27,  191 5 

It  is  a  very  bright  (though  far  from  sultry)  October 
morning,  cheery  and  healthy.  It  began  badly  yesterday 
but  turned  out  brilliantly  fine,  and  I  had  a  very  nice 
drive  into  Paris  in  the  afternoon  with  the  Pringles:  we 
went  through  the  park  and  forest  of  St.  Cloud  —  the 
palace  no  longer  exists,  it  having  been  burned  by  the 
Communards  in  1871. 

The  colouring  of  the  trees  was  splendid,  and  there  are 
magnificent  views  out  across  the  Seine  valley. 

We  went  to  see  Madame  de  Montebello,  whom  I 
found  charming:  she  is  very  picturesque,  with  grey 
hair  powdered  white;  she  is  very  "grande  dame,"  and 
imposing,  but  most  cordial,  and  full  of  "esprit"  and 
brightness.     We  cottoned  to  each  other  promptly.     She 


John  Ayscough^s  Letters  to  his  Mother       333 

was  French  Ambassadress  at  St.  Petersburg  when  Lady 
O'Conor  was  our  own  Ambassadress  there.  By  the  way 
I  heard  from  her  to-day,  and  she  enquires  much  after 
you. 

I  see  in  to-day's  paper  that  young  Yvo  Chatteris,  son 
of  Lady  Wemyss,  to  whom  I  sent  the  helmet,  was  killed 
on  the  seventeenth.  I  think  that  is  the  fourth  nephew 
Lady  Glenconner  has  had  killed  since  the  war  began: 
and,  as  he  was  in  the  Grenadiers  with  Bim,  I  fear  it  will 
terrify  her. 

On  getting  back  from  Paris  yesterday  I  had  to  give 
Holy  Communion  to  a  poor  soldier  who  is  very  badly 
wounded  —  a  big  piece  of  shrapnel  wedged  into  his  lung: 
then  I  had  evening  church,  a  daily  event  as  long  as  the 
men  will  come. 

I  must  dry  up  and  go  round  to  hospital  now. 

Saturday i  October  30,  191 5 

I  HAVE  just  received  your  letter  of  Wednesday,  and  in 
it  the  envelope  of  my  own  letter  to  you  of  last  Sunday 
opened  by  the  "Base"  censor  out  here  —  Paris,  Rouen, 
or  Havre,  I  don't  know  which.  As  it  is  the  first  letter 
from  me  he  had  opened,  out  of  the  tons  I  have  posted, 
I  can't  grumble. 

The  duck  arrived  at  the  same  time;  thus  announced 
by  Wilcox,  "Enter  forth  His  Highness  (hope  not)  the 
chicken." 

The  duck  is  splendid,  a  very  large  one,  and  well-grown, 
well-fed,  well-killed,  and  well-trussed.  It  shall  be  roasted 
for  our  Sunday  dinner  to-morrow,  and  will  last  us  several 
days.  A  chicken  last  week  lasted  us  all  Sunday,  Mon- 
day, Tuesday  and  Wednesday,  and  made  us  the  soup 
that  finished  our  supper  on  Thursday!  Mary  sent  a 
killing  letter  with  the  duck,  which  I  will  duly  answer. 

Yesterday  I  went  to  tea  with  the  Pringles:  a  semi-tea 
party,  with  about  five  other  guests,  all  of  whom  bored 


334       John  Ayscough^s  Letters  to  his  Mother 

me:  but  I  stayed  on  after  them  and  enjoyed  the  time 
with  my  kind  hostesses  alone.  To-day  I  lunch  there,  as 
I  have  told  you. 

It  is  a  grumpy-looking  day;  sunless  and  bleak;  but 
not  really  very  cold. 

I  don't  like  your  occasional  allusions  to  having  a  fire: 
you  ought  to  have  one  every  day.  MIND!  Have  good 
fires,  and  keep  your  old  bones  comfortable,  which  will 
save  doctoring,  and  will  keep  you  out  of  the  blues. 

I  must  go  off  to  hospital  now,  so  good-bye  and  with 
best  love  to  Christie. 

Sunday,  October  31,  191 5 

It  is  a  wet,  drizzly  morning,  not  cold  but  cheerless- 
looking,  and  one's  room,  with  a  good  fire,  is  a  very  pleasant 
place  to  be  in. 

After  Mass  at  the  hospital,  and  seeing  a  few  patients 
rather  specially  ill,  I  came  home,  breakfasted,  and  am 
now  writing  this  to  you. 

Mary's  duck  is  roasting  downstairs,  and  filling  the 
house  with  excellent  odours  of  an  unwontedly  good 
Sunday  dinner.     I  will  drink  Mary's  health  in  the  gravy! 

Yesterday  I  lunched  at  the  Pringles  —  a  party  of 
about  a  dozen,  five  of  themselves.  Marquise  de  Monte- 
bello,  a  Captain  Belz  (Alsatian,  who  has  only  one  leg 
left,  having  had  the  other  blown  off  fighting  for  France), 
an  old  half-French,  half-American,  Mr.  Vail,  etc.,  and 
myself.  We  had  an  excellent  lunch  and  I  had  long 
talks  with  Mme.  de  Montebello.  She  is  granddaughter- 
in-law  of  Napoleon's  Marshal  Lannes. 

I  must  dry  up  —  take  this  round  to  the  hospital. 

Monday,  All  Saints^  Day,  November  i,  191 5 

A  VERY  wet  "Toussaint,"  but  not  at  all  cold.  I  had 
Mass  at  hospital  at  eight  and  directly  after  breakfast 
went  back  there   to  give   Holy   Communion   to  a   man 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother       335 

who  was  rather  bad.  This  afternoon  after  luncheon  I 
go  back  to  give  it  to  another  man. 

Yes!  poor  young  Yvo  Charteris  was  already  killed 
when  I  sent  him  the  helmet.  I  fear  it  will  make  Lady 
Glenconner  terrified  for  Bim.  The  officers  of  our  Guards 
have  suffered  fearful  losses  from  the  very  beginning  of 
the  war.  I  duly  received  the  mittens  yesterday,  and  do 
not  despise  them  at  all:  you  may  be  sure  I  should  never 
despise  anything  made  by  you:  when  we  have  cold,  raw 
days  I  will  wear  them,  but  to-day  is  rather  muggy  and 
close. 

I  want  you  to  make  me  a  little  sort  of  pad  (rather  like 
a  kettle-holder!)  for  cleaning  my  razor  on  after  use.  It 
should  be  rather  thick  —  just  as  a  kettle-holder  is:  one 
side  might  be  made  of  coarse  linen  (old  rag,  a  bit  of  old 
table-cloth,  napkin,  or  towel) :  the  other  side  of  cloth, 
velvet,  etc.  On  the  linen  side  one  would  wipe  the  razor, 
on  the  other  one  would  polish  it. 

I  am  going  to  tea  with  the  Pringles  after  leaving  the 
hospital,  and  I  am  afraid  that  will  be  the  good-bye  visit. 
I  shall  miss  them  terribly;  for  I  am  really /on^  of  them: 
and  they  are  cordial  hospitality  itself. 

I  must  dry  up  (I  wish  the  weather  would!)  and  so  with 
best  love  to  Christie. 

All  Souls*  Day,  Novemher  2,  191 5 

I  HAVE  just  got  back  from  the  big  function  at  the 
cathedral  —  a  High  Mass  of  Requiem,  with  "Allocution" 
by  the  Bishop.  The  cathedral  was  crammed  and  a 
very  large  proportion  of  the  congregation  were  French 
officers  and  soldiers.  The  singing  was  fine  and  Mgr. 
Gibier's  discourse  was  just  what  it  should  be  —  simple, 
tender,  sincere,  direct,  full  of  sympathy  and  heart:  not 
too  long,  and  not  too  eloquent!  I  was  able  to  understand 
every  word. 

Before  the  Mass  I  talked  to  him,  and  he  was  very 


336       John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

cordial  and  nice;  he  has  a  wonderfully  sweet  and  good 
face,  singularly  like  Pius  X. 

It  was  rather  a  struggle  to  get  there  in  time;  but  I 
was  (ten  minutes  before  Mass  began),  for  the  cathedral 
is  right  at  the  other  end  of  Versailles  and  I  had  three 
Masses  of  my  own  to  say  at  the  hospital  first.  The 
Pope  now  gives  leave  for  three  Masses  on  All  Souls' 
Day  as  on  Christmas  Day.  I  got  up  at  quarter  to  five! 
Yesterday  afternoon  I  went  to  tea  with  the  Pringles, 
and  stayed  on  till  nearly  seven,  chatting  very  comfort- 
ably:   how  I  shall  miss  them! 

Your  letter  of  Saturday  arrived  to-day  and  I  return 
the  postage  rate;  but  I  doubt  if  it  concerns  me,  as  our 
rates  are  special:  nothing  for  a  letter  under  four  ounces, 
and  so  on. 

Wednesday  Morning,  November  3,  191 5 

.  .  .  This  will  be  a  scrubby  short  letter,  because  (i) 
I  have  nothing  to  say;    (2)  no  time  to  say  it. 

I  received  your  letter  of  Sunday  this  morning,  in 
which  you  promise  me  a  cake  from  Mrs.  K.  When 
I  glanced  through  that  bill  of  Hart's  I  noticed  that  the 
prices  are  all  much  lower  than  what  one  has  to  pay  here 
—  so  I  was  pleasantly  surprised. 

I  went  to  tea  with  the  Pringles  again  yesterday,  and 
stayed  on  very  late  chatting.  To-day  I  go  again  — 
and  to-morrow,  at  8  a.m.,  they  start  for  Biarritz  in  their 
car:  the  servants  going  by  train.  I  shall  miss  them 
terribly:  they  are  the  only  friends  I  have  made  here 
except  F.  and  the  A.-L.'s,  and  their  departure  will  leave  an 
irreparable  gap.  The  weather,  very  sour  and  scowly 
the  last  day  or  two,  has  brightened  up,  and  to-day  is  a 
regular  smiling  October  day,  which  really  should  have 
arrived  last  week. 

I  sent  you  a  harum-scarum  book  called  ''Manalive" 
by  G.   K.  Chesterton:    it  rather  makes  my  bones  ache 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother       337 

(my  mind's  bones)  it  is  so  jumpy.     But  I  must  confess 
it  keeps  me  interested. 

Friday  Morning,  November  5,  191 5 

...  I  AM  afraid  that  on  Sunday  you  will  have  no  letter 
from  me,  though  you  will  receive  a  very  amusing  book  — 
"Some  Experiences  of  an  Irish  Resident  Magistrate." 
Yesterday  I  had  such  a  crowd  of  little  things  to  do  in 
the  morning  that  I  missed  the  post  altogether.  To  go 
back  to  Wednesday:  I  went  to  tea  for  positively  the  last 
time  to  my  kind  Pringles,  and  stayed  on  till  nearly  seven. 
I  really  felt  sad  saying  good-bye  to  them,  and  cannot 
tell  you  how  much  I  shall  feel  their  loss.  However, 
instead  of  grumbling  at  that  I  had  better  think  gratefully 
of  the  many  pleasant  hours  they  have  given  me  during 
the  last  couple  of  months. 

They  were  to  start  at  8.30  yesterday  morning;  lunch 
at  Romorantin,  motor  on  to  Limoges,  dine  and  sleep 
there,  and  motor  on  to  Biarritz  to-day. 

Yesterday  I  gave  Lady  Austin-Lee  luncheon  in  Paris, 
at  a  restaurant  called  "L'Escargot,"  rather  a  famous  place, 
but  not  at  all  smart,  nor  in  a  smart  part  of  Paris.  L'Es- 
cargot  is  its  name  because  snails  are  the  specialty  of 
the  house.  Lady  A.-L.  and  I  had  both  of  us  a  curiosity 
to  go  to  the  place  and  to  try  the  snails.  Some  of  the 
people  we  saw  ate  three  dozen  each!  but  we  only  ordered 
one  dozen  and  a  half  between  us,  and,  though  I  ate 
eight  out  of  my  nine.  Lady  A.-L.  only  ate  six  out  of 
hers.  The  taste  is  all  right,  but  they  look  appalling!  ! 
I  am  glad  to  have  tried  them,  but  don't  intend  to  try 
again.  After  the  snails  we  had  another  specialty  of 
the  house  —  pigs'  feet,  first  stewed,  then  roasted :  not 
nasty,  but  not  particularly  good.  Mind,  this  place, 
though  rather  in  the  slums  near  the  "Halles,"  is  anything 
but  cheap:  there  were  several  millionaires  lunching 
there  near  us! 


338       John  Ayscough^s  Letters  to  his  Mother 

I'm  glad  all  the  papers,  etc.,  I  send  make  a  little 
pass-time  for  you.  I  hardly  ever  waste  a  paper,  it  is 
sure  to  be  welcome  to  someone. 


Sunday,  November  7,  191 5 

...  It  is  a  very  November  day,  pale,  dim,  wreathed 
in  white  mist,  and  with  a  chill  breath,  though  not  a  real 
wind.  A  regular  Ellesmere  day  of  late  autumn,  a  tree 
smell  everywhere  in  the  dank  air!  I  do  like  the  French 
turning  up  their  noses  at  our  English  weather:  for  their 
own  is  its  twin  brother. 

I  said  Mass  at  the  hospital  and  afterwards  went  to  four 
different  wards  to  give  Holy  Communion  to  men  who  are 
rather  bad.  Then  I  came  home,  breakfasted,  read  your 
letter  of  Thursday  and  the  New  York  Herald  —  which 
I  sent  on  to  you.  I  sent  you  an  Album  of  Crochet  a 
day  or  two  ago,  and  now  I  send  another.  I  thought  you 
might  care  to  send  them  round  by  Bert  to  Miss  Polly 
Burtt,  but  if  you  care  to  keep  them  I  should,  of  course, 
like  that  better  still.  The  cake  has  not  arrived  yet, 
but  will  probably  come  to-night.  Our  letters  come  in 
the  morning,  but  our  parcels  only  arrive  about  twelve 
hours  later.  The  cards  I  enclose  are  from  the  Pringles, 
despatched  as  they  sped  south  in  the  car  from  Limoges 
and  Perigueux.  ...  I  miss  them  sadly,  but  no  more 
than  I  knew  I  should. 

Monday y  November  8,  191 5 

...  I  ENCLOSE  a  further  flight  of  post-cards,  fired 
off  by  the  Pringles  on  their  way  south.  They  have  now 
reached  Biarritz,  and  very  soon  I  shall  have  a  shower 
of  letters  as  well! 

Last  night,  when  I  looked  out  before  going  to  bed, 
it  was  thick  fog:  during  the  night  that  changed  to  a  very 
hard  frost  without  any  fog:  and  an  hour  after  I  got  up 
the  frost  had  gone  and  the  fog  come  back. 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother       339 

It  is  very  cold,  and  most  opportunely  a  new  top-coat 
arrived  last  night  from  England,  what  we  call  a  "  British 
Warm,"  a  rather  short,  very  comfortable  and  cosey 
uniform  overcoat.  I  wore  it  this  morning  going  out  for 
Mass  and  found  it  a  joy. 

I  told  you  that  I  gave  Holy  Communion  to  four  men 
yesterday  after  Mass:  one  of  them  died  at  midday, 
poor  lad.  At  my  httle  evening  service  last  night  I 
noticed  a  very  intelligent-looking  young  fellow,  with 
rather  a  handsome  face,  Irish  colouring  and  eyes:  as 
they  were  going  away  I  nodded  to  him  to  stop  a  moment, 
and  asked  him  his  name.  "Patrick  McGill."  "Where 
do  you  come  from?"  "Donegal:  but  I  live  at  Windsor." 
"I  suppose  you  have  only  been  a  soldier  since  the  be- 
ginning of  the  war?"  "Yes."  "What  are  you  by 
occupation?"  "A  novelist."  Then  I  remembered  .  .  . 
just  before  the  war  I  remember  reading  reviews  of  two 
novels  of  his,  praised  to  the  skies;  one  called  "The  Dead 
End,"  and  the  other  "The  Ratpit,"  and  seeing  a  very 
interesting  portrait  of  him  in  one  of  the  papers.  He  is 
only  twenty-four.  We  had  a  long  talk  and  I  found  him 
interesting,  but  a  little  grandy  especially  in  his  way  of 
talking. 

I  send  you  a  book  of  W.  W.  Jacobs,  called  "The  Lady 
of  the  Barge,"  a  bundle  of  short  stories,  some  very  funny, 
some  very  weird.  I  hope  some  of  them  won't  keep  you 
awake  at  night.     I  must  go  to  hospital.  .  .  . 

Friday,  November  12,  191 5 

.  .  .  Such  a  day!  Tearing  wind,  driving  rain  —  and 
chimneys  trying  to  smoke:  not  quite  succeeding,  because 
every  French  fireplace  has  a  thin  sheet  of  iron  to  draw 
down  in  front  of  the  fire,  and  one  can  leave  it  half  down 
if  the  chimney  is  trying  to  smoke. 

I  went  to  see  F.  again  and  found  him  a  shade  better, 
but  so  weak  that  in  the  hour  I  stayed  by  his  side  he 


340       John  Ayscough^s  Letters  to  his  Mother 

hardly  spoke  a  dozen  words.  He  asked  after  you  and 
wished  he  could  write  to  you:  he  really  is  fond  of  you, 
though  he  never  saw  you.  I  thought  he  seemed  very 
sad,  though  very  quiet.  He  said  to  me,  "It  would  be 
less  trouble  to  die  once  for  all,  on  the  field  of  battle,  than 
bit  by  bit  Hke  this." 

While  I  was  there,  Madame  de  Montebello  came  to 
see  him,  but  only  stayed  in  his  room  a  moment.  She  is 
head  of  all  the  Croix  Rouge  of  France,  and  is  going  on  a 
tour  of  inspection  of  hospitals:  on  her  return  I  am  to 
lunch  with  her. 

I  went  on  my  return  to  Versailles  to  tea  with  Comtesse 
de  Sercey  at  the  Hotel  des  Reservoirs  here;  she  had  with 
her  a  Comte  de  Luz  and  his  daughter:  all  three  very 
nice,  and  particularly  cordial  and  friendly.  They  had 
come  out  from  Paris  on  purpose  to  give  me  this  tea. 

Monday,  November  15,  191 5 

.  .  .  The  very  stormy  weather  in  the  Channel  has 
disorganised  our  mails  and  I  daresay  you  will  be  getting 
my  letters  irregularly.  On  Saturday  we  had  no  mail, 
yesterday  we  got  Saturday's:  and  to-day  I  have  just 
received  your  letter  dated  Thursday  which  ought  to 
have  arrived  yesterday  —  i.e.,  we  are  still  a  day  behind- 
hand, and  to-day's  has  not  yet  come  in. 

After  Mass  yesterday  I  had  hospital  work  to  occupy 
me  till  it  was  time  to  rush  off  to  the  train  for  Paris, 
where  I  was  lunching  with  Lady  Austin-Lee.  So  I 
could  only  send  you  a  word  to  say  I  had  no  time  to  write. 
The  party  at  Lady  A.-L.'s  consisted  of  herself,  Sir  Henry, 
and  three  Scotts,  a  Mr.  and  Mrs.  S.  and  a  young  Mr. 
Alex.  Scott.  They  were  all  three  Americans  and  very 
nice  ones. 

After  luncheon  I  read  aloud  the  instalment  of  "  French 
and  English"  in  the  Month  (of  November)  and  the  ladies 
wept. 


John  Ay s cough'' s  Letters  to  his  Mother       341 

I  will  get  you  the  crochet  stuff  in  Paris  on  Thursday 
when  I  am  lunching  there  with  the  Scotts. 

I  am  going  to  a  tea-fight  at  the  Huntingtons  to-day: 
to-morrow  I  am  invited  to  go  to  Mile,  de  Missiessy's 
wedding,  and  am  giving  tea  to  Lady  Austin-Lee  and  Mr. 
Scott:  and  so  with  another  lunch  in  Paris  on  Thursday 
you  see  I  am  quite  gay.  I  am  so  sorry  to  hear  of  Dr. 
Allan's  illness;  poor  old  man,  he  has  not  had  a  very 
joyful  life  since  we  have  known  him:  and  I  always  liked 
him,  if  only  because  he  was  so  old-fashioned  and  so  really 
a  gentleman.  Mrs.  K.'s  cake  is  excellent  and  I  must 
write  and  tell  her  so.  But  I  have  seemed  to  have  so 
very  little  time  for  letters  lately. 

I  really  must  stop  and  go  round  to  hospital. 

November  19,  191 5 
...  I  WENT  into  Paris  yesterday  to  lunch  with  the 
Scotts  {i.e.  Mrs.  Scott,  and  her  son  Alexander).  It 
was  a  regular  London  yellow  fog,  and  we  lunched  by 
electric  light:  very  cold  too:  but  the  Scotts'  rooms  were 
too  hot,  heated  with  "central  heating,"  as  they  call  it 
here,  i.e.  no  visible  fire,  hot  puffs  of  hot  air  from  some- 
where —  detestable,  I  think.  They  have  very  handsome 
rooms  in  the  Langhorn  Hotel,  Rue  de  Boccador,  and  the 
luncheon  was  Ai.  Mrs.  Scott  is  really  charming, 
extraordinarily  young-looking  to  be  mother  of  a  son  of 
Alexander's  age  (about  twenty)  and  with  a  charming 
face.     Lady  Austin-Lee  was  the  only  other  guest. 

To-day  is  cold  and  foggy  too,  but  here  the  fog  isn't 
miich.    I  expect  it  is  nearly  dark  in  Paris. 

Do  you  remember  how  often  I  have  mentioned  the 
long  border  here.''  It  was  really  magnificent,  over  a 
thousand  good  geraniums,  many  beautiful  fuchsias 
(say  fifty  or  sixty),  many  abutilons  and  other  good  plants 
—  and  they  have  left  all  those  plants  out  to  be  destroyed 
and  they  now  are  destroyed,  all  black  and  hideous  from 
the  hard  frosts,   and   black  and  hideous  they  will  stay 


342       John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

there  all  through  the  winter.  It  makes  me  sad  and 
would  make  you  frantic!  The  soldiers  who  were  always 
working  for  Beranek  would  have  got  them  all  in  to  the 
greenhouses  in  an  hour  or  two. 

Your  letter  of  Tuesday  has  duly  arrived.  I  am  always 
so  grateful  for  your  cheery,  pleasant  letters;  they  are  a 
daily  relief  to  my  mind.  I  don't  care  sixpence  whether 
they  contain  news  or  not;  all  I  want  is  to  see  your  writing 
and  know  you  are  well  and  cheery.  Never  bother  making 
out  a  long  letter  if  you  feel  indisposed  to  it  —  three  lines 
would  do  for  me,  but  for  those  three  lines  I  look  out 
eagerly. 

I  must  go  forth  to  hospital. 

Saturday,  November  20,  191 5 

...  I  RECEIVED  to-day  your  letter  of  Wednesday, 
in  which  you  mention  having  received  the  mantilla  from 
Miss  Maria  Pringle.  I  have  at  once  sent  on  your  letter 
to  her.  The  mantilla  is  entirely  her  own  gift  to  you, 
but  I  believe  it  was  pinned  up  into  Spanish  form  by  the 
Duchess  of  San  Carlos's  maid  exactly  as  she  does  her 
mistress's  when  the  Duchess  is  in  waiting  (she  is  lady- 
in-waiting  to  the  Queen  of  Spain:  and  at  court  all  ladies 
must  wear  the  mantilla).  I  am  so  glad  you  like  it,  and 
I  know  Miss  Pringle  liked  sending  it. 

Yesterday  I  went  to  see  F.  and  found  him  much  better 
and  in  very  good  spirits  —  of  course  still  confined  strictly 
to  bed.  While  I  was  there  Lady  Austin-Lee  came  over 
from  Paris  to  see  him  and  so  he  had  plenty  of  company. 

On  getting  back  to  Versailles  I  went  to  tea  with  a 
Madame  Guyon,  whom  I  don't  think  I  ever  mentioned 
to  you,  but  whom  I  used  to  meet  constantly  at  the 
Pringles:  and  they  begged  me  to  cultivate  her.  She  is 
clever  and  pleasant;  her  mother  was  there,  too  (they 
do  not  live  together),  as  a  guest  like  myself:  the  mother 
is  called  Madame  de  Salette;    she  is  also  clever  and  lets 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother       343 

you  know  it.  I  enjoyed  my  visit;  they  both  have  heaps 
to  say  and  not  a  word  of  gossip:  the  rooms  are  very 
comfortable,  hke  EngHsh  rooms  in  a  really  good  house 
belonging  to  well-born  and  well-bred  people,  and  the  tea 
was  just  like  an  English  tea.  Madame  Guyon  has 
beautiful  things  —  miniatures,  furniture,  china,  old  fans, 
etc.,  and  Madame  de  Salette  paints  in  oils  extremely  well 
—  portraits  chiefly. 

I  am  reading  a  very  good  (new)  life  of  Lord  Lyons, 
whom  I  used  to  know  well.  He  was  the  brother  of  my 
old  Duchess  of  Norfolk  and  our  Ambassador  in  Wash- 
ington, Paris,  etc. 

The  book  interests  me  immensely,  and  as  it  is  my  own 
I  will  send  it  to  you  as  soon  as  I  have  finished  it. 

Monday,  November  22,  191 5 

.  .  .  To-day  is  the  least  gloomy-looking  we  have  had 
for  quite  a  long  time:  there  is  actually  a  pallid  attempt 
at  sunshine:  whereas  yesterday  was  black  and  bitter, 
a  most  ferocious  east  wind  that  seemed  to  search  for  one's 
bones  —  it  did  not  find  mine,  owing  to  my  "British 
Warm,"  and  a  thick,  woolly  waistcoat  I  wear  under  my 
tunic.  The  knitted  comforter  to  go  under  the  collar 
of  the  coat  that  you  made  me  has  arrived  and  I  will  wear 
it  if  I  can,  but  there  is  not  much  room  under  my  collar; 
what  with  crossbelt,  "British  Warm,"  etc.,  I  have  so 
much  on. 

I  went  to  see  F.  yesterday  after  a  hurried  luncheon, 
and  found  him  really  much  better;  he  had  got  up  at 
eleven  and  remained  up  till  1.30  (after  his  luncheon), 
but  was  then  tired  and  glad  enough  to  go  back  to  bed. 
They  are  going  to  operate  on  him  again!  !  !  Though  it 
is  only  a  slight  operation,  I  think  it  lamentable:  certain 
nerves  have  to  be  operated  upon  in  his  legs. 

I  cannot  tell  you  how  cold  it  was  waiting  at  Chaville 
station  for  my  train  home  after  leaving  him.     I  never 


344       John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

felt  a  worse  east  wind;  however,  I  was  thoroughly 
warmly  clad,  and  the  train  as  warm  as  a  toast  when  it 
arrived.  Chaville  is  two  stations  from  here  on  the  road 
to  Paris;  the  forest  (largely  birch)  is  very  pretty  there. 
After  my  evening  service  at  the  hospital  I  came  home 
and  sat  by  my  cosey  fire  reading  Lord  Newton's  "Life  of 
Lord  Lyons"  —  very  comfortable,  and  I  thoroughly 
enjoyed  it.  The  only  interruption  was  letting  Wilcox  read 
aloud  to  me  for  half  an  hour  —  this  he  does  for  his  stam- 
mering, and  it  makes  a  wonderful  difference.  What 
do  you  think  he  reads  aloud?  Mrs.  Markham's  "His- 
tory of  England":  it  carries  me  back  nearly  fifty  years, 
to  when  you  used  to  read  it  aloud  to  Pierce  and  me  when 
we  lived  in  Scotland  Street  at  Ellesmere.  I  remember 
the  pictures  so  well,  and  love  to  look  at  them.  This 
morning  I  got  two  letters  from  you,  one  written  on 
Thursday  afternoon  and  one  on  Friday  morning  —  en- 
closing one  from  Aunt  Agnes. 

Most  of  all  I  am  glad  that  you  are  not  fretting  about 
my  absence  at  Christmas.  I  would  much  rather  not  go 
home  on  leave:  To  go  home  for  Christmas  only  would 
upset  us  both  and  would  almost  certainly  lead  to 
my  losing  Versailles,  which  certainly  suits  me  in  many 
ways.  I  must  dry  up;  so  good-bye  for  the  moment.  .  .  . 
My  Christmas  dinner  shall  come  from  you  —  duck  and 
plum  pudding! 

Tuesday,  November  23,  191 5 

.  .  .  We  live  in  the  clouds  here:  for  quite  a  long 
time  it  has  been  unbroken  fog,  and  a  very  cold  fog,  pene- 
trating to  the  bones  and  the  marrow  of  the  bones.  I 
lived  six  years  in  London,  and  never  experienced  so  much 
fog  during  all  that  time  as  I  have  already  seen  this  winter 
at  Versailles.  However,  you  need  not  pity  me,  for  I 
keep  up  an  excellent  fire  in  my  room  from  6.30  a.m.  to 
II  P.M.,  and  I  am  warmly  clad  and  well  fed.     Last  night 


John  Ayscoiigh^s  Letters  to  his  Mother       345 

there  was  a  hard  frost  with  the  fog,  and  the  combination 
was  pretty  stiff. 

Yesterday  afternoon  I  went  to  Paris  to  pay  a  round 
of  visits,  and  as  everyone  was  out  I  got  through  a  good 
many.  While  I  was  there  the  Annexe  to  the  Bon  Marche 
was  on  fire  and  if  I  had  known  it  I  should  have  gone  to 
see  it;  but  only  learned  it  from  the  New  York  Herald 
this  morning.  A  million  francs'  worth  of  damage  was 
done  —  and  as  the  Annexe  was  used  as  a  military  hospital, 
I  wonder  if  it  was  set  on  fire  by  Germans.  Within  the 
last  few  days  the  following  notice  has  made  its  appear- 
ance everywhere,  in  railway  carriages,  trams,  libraries, 
cafes,  etc.  (emanating  from  the  Government) : 

*'  Taisez-vous!  Oreilles  ennemies  vous  ecoutent:  des  espions 
partout." 

When  I  got  back  I  cozed  up  to  my  fire,  and  finished  the 
first  volume  of  the  "Life  of  Lord  Lyons,"  which  now  I 
send  on  to  you.  I  daresay  it  will  not  interest  you  as 
much  as  it  does  me,  for  you  did  not  know  Lord  Lyons: 
and  you  are  not  so  much  interested  in  this  sort  of  diplo- 
matic history  —  or  history  from  the  inside:  and  the  book 
is  quite  empty  of  anecdotes  and  social  sidelights:  Lord 
L.  was,  like  the  Duchess,  physically  incapable  of  either 
gossiping  or  listening  to  gossip.  Still  the  period  is  ab- 
sorbingly interesting  (the  American  war  of  North  and 
South  while  Lord  L.  was  ambassador  at  Washington; 
and  the  Franco-Prussian  war  while  he  was  Ambassador 
here). 

Your  letter  of  Saturday  arrived  this  morning:  I  will 
certainly  order  the  turkey  and  tell  Hart  to  be  sure  and 
send  a  nice  young  bird.  I  shall  order  sausages  to  go 
with  it.  And  as  I  have  for  years  sent  the  same  to  Aunt 
Agnes  I  will  not  fail  this  year.  I  think  I  should  like 
Mrs.  K.  to  send  her  a  plum  pudding  too.  If  you  do  make 
me  any  crochet,  let  it  be  narrow,  not  too  fine,  not  too 
minute  or  niggly  a  pattern,  about  seven  feet  long,  for  the 
altar  cloth  in  my  chapel  here. 


346       John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

There  is  a  small  short  alb  in  one  of  the  drawers  in  my 
bedroom  with  thick  heavy  Venetian  point  lace  (made  for 
me  long  ago  by  old  Mrs.  Huthwaite),  a  lace  rather  like 
sea-weed;  the  alb  is  not  resplendent,  but  I  should  like 
it  to  use  while  the  one  I  wear  here  every  day  is  being 
washed  for  Christmas.  Tell  Mary,  please,  and  dont 
send  anything  else  with  it.  It  will  travel  much  better 
for  being  light  and  having  nothing  else  in  the  parcel: 
oh,  by  the  way,  she  may  send  with  it  three  silk  girdles 
(green,  red  and  purplish)  that  are  in  the  same  place:  they 
weigh  almost  nothing. 

Wednesday,  November  24,  191 5 

.  .  .  For  days  we  have  had  nothing  but  hard  frost,  fog 
and  east  wind:  to-day  the  wind  has  gone  south,  the  frost 
has  disappeared,  it  is  almost  warm,  and  the  morning 
began  soft  and  wet,  a  mild  rain  that  soon  stopped;  and 
now,  though  the  sun  is  not  shining  it  is  light  and  almost 
cheerful:  till  to-day  twilight  has  been  the  most  brilliant 
light  we  have  had  even  at  noon. 

I  went  to  Chaville  again  yesterday  to  see  F.  and  found 
him  up,  and  hobbling  about,  and  in  very  good  spirits, 
though  tired  and  weak.  I  stayed  till  four,  then  had  to 
fly  off"  to  catch  my  train  back  to  Versailles:  on  the  way 
I  met  Madame  M.,  who  was  (as  she  always  is)  very 
pessimistic  about  F.'s  health.  He  had  been  talking  to 
me  as  to  how  he  would  earn  his  living  after  leaving 
the  army.  "Poor  boy,"  she  said,  "there  will  never  be 
any  need." 

She  thinks  his  days  will  be  very  few:  but  I  do  not. 
He  has  an  amazing  vitality,  and  that  with  his  pluck 
and  the  desire  to  live  will  carry  him  far. 

She  does  not  talk  in  this  lachrymose  way  to  him: 
only  to  me.  I  came  in  and  read  Lord  Lyons  all  evening 
—  and  "Land  and  Water,"  which  you  will  receive  on 
Sunday  morning. 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother       347 

I  send  you  to-day's  New  Tork  Herald:  in  the  back  page 
is  an  account  by  Camilla  Flammarion,  the  veteran  astrono- 
mer, of  a  wonderful  meteorite  that  is  supposed  to  have 
fallen  near  Rambouillet,  the  light  of  which  was  visible 
here  (and  it  was  audible  here).  Flammarion  says  it 
came  from  so  distant  a  star  that  it  must  have  taken  at 
least  seven  million  years  on  its  way!  No  wonder  it 
burst:   /  should  if  I  had  to  go  on  a  journey  of  that  length. 

Reading  the  "Life  of  Lord  Lyons"  one  realises  that 
without  a  shadow  of  doubt  Germany  began  getting  ready 
for  this  war  the  moment  the  Franco-Prussian  war  was 
over:  and  to  me  it  seems  lamentable  that  we  did  not 
help  France  then,  in  1870.  If  we  had,  this  war  would 
never  have  been  and  the  German  Empire  would  probably 
have  never  been.  But  the  English  always  had  an  idea 
that  there  was  a  natural  friendship  between  us  and  the 
Germans,  and  that  the  Germans  were  good  moral  people, 
who  read  the  Bible  and  went  to  Sunday-school,  whereas 
the  French  were  naughty,  fond  of  flirting,  and  not  to  be 
encouraged.  I'm  sure  that  was  Queen  Victoria's  view, 
too. 

I  have  made  a  little  discovery  on  my  own  hook;  if 
water  is  very  hard  (it  is  terribly  so  here)  you  can  soften 
it  and  prevent  the  soap  curdling  in  it  by  putting  a  pinch 
of  carbonate  of  soda  into  it  before  washing  in  it:  and 
this  also  prevents  one's  skin  chapping,  quite  wonder- 
fully. .  .  . 

Saturday,  November  27,  191 5 

...  It  is  Christmas  card  sort  of  weather,  very  cold, 
very  dry,  very  frosty,  with  glittering  white  bushes  catch- 
ing the  sunlight,  but  very  snowy-looking  clouds  almost 
hiding  the  sun.  What  is  called  very  healthy  weather. 
It  was  extraordinarily  warm  yesterday  and  as  I  walked 
from  Chaville  station  to  F.'s  hospital  the  forest  looked 
lovely  —  a    wintry    sunshine    was    shining    through    it, 


348       John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

undergrowth  and  atmosphere  had  the  same  purple- 
rose  tint,  the  birch-trees  were  hke  rods  of  poHshed  silver, 
and  one  could  see,  through  the  tree-tops,  pale  forget- 
me-not  peeps  of  sky.  The  odd  thing  was  that  at  four 
o'clock,  in  spite  of  its  having  been  so  warm  all  day, 
it  began  snowing,  and  down  it  came,  a  fierce,  thick 
snow-storm.  I  walked  to  the  station  through  snow, 
and  soon  one  could  see  nothing  but  snow  out  of  the 
carriage  windows,  all  else  blotted  out.  The  cold  to-day 
is  piercing,  and  if  it  is  like  this  with  you  I  hope  you  are 
stopping  in  bed.  I  shouldn't  at  all  object  to  stopping 
there  myself. 

I  wrote  to  Miss  Maria  Pringle  last  night  and  repeated 
all  you  said  about  the  mantilla,  which  will  please  her. 

As  to  young  ,  I  am  not  on  your  side:    I  think  he 

is  just  the  sort  of  young  man  who  should  enlist.  He  has 
three  or  four  brothers,  his  mother  is  in  no  way  dependent 
on  him  —  exactly  the  contrary  —  and  though  he  is  quite 
strong  enough  to  go  and  fight,  he  is  not  the  sort  of  man 
whose  children  England  particularly  wants!  And  then 
his  life  in  civilian  occupation  is  a  perpetual  anxiety  and 
struggle.     It  is  sheer  sluggishness  that  keeps  him  back. 

Sunday y  Novemher  28,  191 5 

.  .  .  When  I  wrote  to  you  yesterday  morning  the 
English  mail  had  not  come  in:  when  it  did  it  brought 
me  two  letters  from  you,  one  written  on  Wednesday  and 
one  on  Thursday.  So  the  latter  only  took  forty-eight 
hours  to  come. 

It  is  terribly  cold  still:  hard,  bitter  frost,  but  not 
gloomy:  there  is  blue  sky  and  sunshine,  and  at  night 
brilliant  moonlight.  I  keep  up  a  fine  fire  in  my  room 
and  am  uncommonly  comfortable  by  it.  There  I  finished 
the  Lord  Lyons  book  last  night,  and  was  very  sorry  to  do 
so.  It  is  not  so  much  Lord  Lyons  that  interests 
me,   but   all  the   diplomatic  history.     The   book  is   like 


John  Ayscouglfs  Letters  to  his  Mother       349 

himself,  solid,  excellent;  without  anecdote  or  meander- 
ings:  but  I  doubt  if  you  will  care  much  for  it:  though 
Lord  L.  knew  every  important  personage  of  his  time, 
there  is  scarcely  an  anecdote  about  anyone  of  them: 
and  so  the  book  has  not  what  is  generally  the  special 
attraction  of  such  Memoirs.  And  it  stops  abruptly 
with  Lord  L.'s  death,  just  as  England  is  about  to  make 
her  occupation  of  Egypt  permanent.  At  the  end  is 
a  short  "Lord  Lyons  in  private  life"  by  Mrs.  Wilfred 
Ward,  Lady  O'Conor's  sister,  and  Herbert's  mother, 
who,  of  course,  was  Lord  Lyons'  grandniece;  more 
interesting  than  the  book  itself. 

I  cannot  thank  you  enough  for  your  daily  letter:  no 
matter  if  it  were  only  half  a  page;  it  is  just  to  know 
that  you  are  well  and  comfortable  —  that  makes  all  the 
difference  to  me.  Winifred  wrote  also  saying  I  might 
like  to  hear  from  an  outside  source  how  well  she  thought 
you,  but  begging  me  not  to  let  you  go  out  in  the  bitter 
winds  you  have  been  having. 

Excuse  this  short  scribble.     I've  no  time  for  more. 

Monday,  November  29,  191 5 

...  I  AM  taking  a  leaf  out  of  your  book  and  having  a 
day's  rest-cure  in  bed!  It  is  a  beastly  day  and  I  began 
with  an  attack  of  neuralgia:  so  I  am  doing  the  lazy. 
The  neuralgia,  however,  has  departed,  unlamented.  I 
send  you  a  Pearson  s  Weekly  not  because  it  is  your  line, 
but  because  of  a  rather  remarkable  article  on  the  Kaiser's 
madness. 

The  hard  frost  and  bright  sun  have  disappeared,  and 
it  is  muggy  and  pouring  rain  and  very  dark,  and  very 
gloomy.  But  I  am  uncommonly  cosey  in  my  room  here, 
and  thoroughly  enjoying  my  "off"  day,  which  I  am  the 
better  enabled  to  take  that  the  hospital  is  nearly  empty. 

Every  night  when  I  undress  and  go  to  bed  in  this 
excellent    room    by    an    excellent    fire,    I    think    of   the 


350       'John  Ayscough*s  Letters  to  his  Mother 

millions  of  poor  lads  freezing  in  the  trenches   and  ask 
God  to  forgive  me  for  any  spirit  of  grumbling.   .   .   . 

Have  no  post-cards  about  deceased  priests  come 
within  the  last  few  months?  I  am  bound  to  say  Mass  for 
each,  under  pain  of  mortal  sin,  and  I  have  had  none  for 
ages  —  surely  some  priests  must  have  died!  Please 
see  that  these  cards  are  forwarded  at  once.  If  any  have 
not  been,  but  are  still  in  the  house,  send  me  the  names 
on  them.  ...  If  not,  I  shall  have  to  write  to  the  Car- 
dinal about  it,  and  ask  him  for  a  list  of  all  priests  deceased 
in  England  since  I  left  home. 

Tuesday y  November  30,  191 5 

.  .  .  Again  no  mail  from  England  to-day,  though  I 
daresay  they  will  crop  up  before  evening:  so  I  have  no 
letter  of  yours  to  acknowledge. 

To-day  is  very  fine;  blue  sky,  soft  air  and  sunshine  — 
certainly  the  climate  of  Northern  France  is  as  versatile 
as  that  of  England.  I  feel  very  lively  to-day  after  my 
rest-cure  yesterday.  Of  course  I  did  not  sleeps  though 
I  stayed  in  bed,  but  read  all  day:  a  life  of  Sir  Robert 
Morier,  who  was,  like  Lord  Lyons,  a  British  Ambassador: 
but  like  him  in  nothing  else:  the  book,  I  think,  may  turn 
out  more  amusing  than  Lord  L.'s  life,  because  it  is  gossipy 
and  deals  with  all  sorts  of  people  in  a  light  and  rather 
flippant  fashion,  but  so  far  I  do  not  think  Sir  Robert 
Morier  compares  particularly  well  with  Lord  Lyons,  the 
former  full  of  himself,  flighty,  full  of  moods  and  ups  and 
downs,  and,  as  it  seems  to  me,  feather-headed.  Still  one 
learns  a  lot  from  both  of  these  books.  I  send  you  a 
New  York  Herald  with  a  very  scathing  but  very  tragic 
cartoon  in  it,  representing  the  "Lusitania"  children's 
shades  saying  to  the  shades  of  "Ancona's"  children, 
"Never  mind;    you'll  soon  be  forgotten." 

As  no  mails  have  come  to-day  I  have  not  yet  received 
either  the  alb  or  the  pretty  thing  you  made  for  Miss 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother       351 

Pringle,  which  I  will  send  on  directly  it  arrives.  Don't 
be  excited  if  a  large  parcel  arrives  from  me;  it  is 
only  my  big  motor  coat  which  I  cannot  use  here, 
it  not  being  uniform;  in  one  of  the  pockets  I  shall  stuff 
eucalpytus  leaves. 

I  must  dry  up  and  go  to  hospital. 

Tuesday  Evening,  November  30,  191 5 

.  ,  .  When  I  wrote  to  you  this  morning  no  English 
mail  had  come  in,  but  since  then  one  has  arrived  bring- 
ing me  two  letters  from  you  for  me  and  one  for  F.,  which 
I  will  take  him  to-morrow.  I  went  to  see  him  this 
afternoon  and  found  him  well  and  very  cheerful.  He 
was  in  uniform,  the  first  time  since  he  was  opere,  and  we 
went  out  for  a  little  walk  in  the  forest.  How  I  wished 
you  were  there;  it  was  so  lovely  and  you  could  have 
made  exquisite  sketches  of  it  —  like  two  we  have  framed 
in  the  drawing-room,  leafless  woods  with  wonderful 
lights  among  the  trees.  I  had  no  idea  at  all  till  I  came 
to  live  at  Versailles  how  beautiful  the  near  neighbourhood 
of  Paris  was;  the  forests  run  quite  close  up  to  it  on  this, 
the  western  side:  and  it  is  not  fiat  forest,  but  a  country 
of  narrow  valleys  between  ridges  of  hill,  all  clothed  in 
woodland.  The  road  to  Versailles  from  Paris  twists 
along  one  of  these  valleys,  and  there  are  houses  the 
whole  way,  so  that  going  by  tram  it  is  like  one  long, 
interminable  street  —  but  at  the  back  of  the  houses  the 
forest  runs  close  down  to  their  gardens.  Even  in  Louis 
XIV's  time  the  forest  between  Versailles  and  Paris  was 
so  wild  and  untrodden  that  it  was  full  of  game  and  the 
fiercer  animals  of  the  chase, — wolves,  wild  boars  and  they 
say  even  bears. 

We  climbed  by  a  woodland  road  up  to  the  flat  top  of 
one  of  the  narrow  ridges,  and  through  the  trees  got  a 
brief  view,  across  one  valley,  across  the  corner  of  another 
to  Sevres,  and  beyond,  about  five  miles  away,  lay  Paris, 


352       John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

pearly-white,  shining  through  a  sunny  haze.  One  could 
plainly  see  the  huge  tall  dome  of  the  Pantheon,  On  the 
other  side  was  another  deep  valley,  filled  with  leafless 
trees,  and  in  the  bottom  the  etangs,  or  pools  of  Ville 
d'Avrage,  like  immense  pearls  caught  in  an  opal  net. 
Where  we  were  the  trees  were  all  birches,  and  their 
leafless  tops,  all  pink  rose,  were  lovelier  than  if  they 
were  covered  with  foliage.  Their  boles,  smooth  and 
shining,  were  like  rods  of  polished  silver.  On  a  tree- 
trunk  I  was  interested  to  see  a  little  board  on  which  was 
painted  "To  Morte  Fontaine,"  which  was  the  country 
home  of  Joseph,  the  eldest  of  Napoleon's  brothers,  King 
of  Spain,  and  husband  of  Queen  Juhe  Clary,  my  old 
friend's  Aunt  Julie;  she  was  much  fonder  of  her  quiet 
life  there  than  of  court  life,  and  hated  leaving  it,  which 
she  only  did  for  a  very  short  time. 

Reading  Lord  Lyons'  life  makes  me  more  than  ever 
ashamed  of  our  monstrous  disregard  of  propriety  in 
letting  the  Prince  Imperial  go  to  Zululand,  and  our  letting 
him  go  with  such  carelessness  as  to  the  conditions  of  his 
safety  that  he  was  killed  for  nothing — not  in  battle,  but 
by  sheer  disregard  of  the  precautions  we  ought  to  have 
insisted  upon.  Even  the  Republicans  here  were  scanda- 
lised and  indignant  when  the  news  of  his  being  killed 
thus  arrived:  and  there  is  hardly  any  doubt  he  would 
have  been  Emperor  had  we  taken  proper  care  of  him:  and 
if  he  had  many  things  would  have  followed  a  different 
course  here. 

When  we  were  in  the  wood  F.  said  "Oh,  Francois, 
I  have  something  to  tell  you.  They  are  going  to  operate 
on  me  again."  Poor  boy:  I  wonder  there  is  any  of  him 
left!  However,  he  takes  it  all  with  his  unfailing  cheerful- 
ness and  courage. 

I  enjoyed  our  little  stroll:  I  always  feel  tons  better 
for  a  walk  in  fields  or  woods:  the  town  cobwebs  clear 
away  and  I  feel  more  manly  and  cheerful.  You  do  not 
know  how  hard  it  is  to  keep  my  temper,  so  to  speak, 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother       353 

and  I  often  rail  against  "destiny,"  which  is  all  very  rot- 
ten, for  there  is  no  such  thing,  only  the  great  Will  of 
God,  who  is  kinder  than  any  plan  of  our  own,  and  who 
has  done  so  much  for  me,  and  for  you,  too.  Certainly 
for  a  man  on  Active  Service,  I  have  nothing  to  grumble 
at:  and  if  I  am  parted  from  you,  alas,  how  many  of  my 
friends  have  had  to  make  the  greatest  parting  of  all. 

Wednesday  Evenings  December  i,  191 5 

.  .  .  This  morning  when  I  opened  the  windows  there 
was  the  soft  smell  of  the  south  wind,  really  sweet  as  if 
blowing  from  scented  woods  and  flowered  fields:  it  was 
quite  warm,  and  the  sky  was  almost  without  clouds, 
but  I  said  "just  the  sort  of  day  that  turns  to  rain,"  and 
so  it  did.  When  I  went  to  Chaville  to  see  F.  the  rain 
was  pelting  down,  and  there  was  no  walk  in  the  forest 
for  us  to-day:  and  it  was  still  pouring  when  I  came  back 
to  Versailles. 

I  found  F.  not  quite  so  well,  but  I  think  it  was  only 
the  influence  of  the  (to  him)  melancholy  weather  —  I, 
who  must  have  some  wild  duck's  blood  in  my  veins 
(not  a  monkey's,  I'm  sure),  am  never  depressed  by  rain, 
but  quite  the  reverse.  This  morning  when  I  went 
round  to  hospital,  I  found  all  the  men  drawn  up  in  a 
double  line,  and  thought  Lord  Kitchener  must  have 
dropped  down  upon  us.  But  it  was  the  young  King 
Manuel  of  Portugal:  and  the  Colonel  immediately 
sent  for  me  to  be  introduced  to  him.  He  was  very 
civil  and  very  simple,  and  looks  almost  a  boy  still.  C. 
will  tell  you  he  is  an  awful  person,  but  the  real  truth  is 
that  Portuguese  anarchists  conducted  a  villainous  cam- 
paign of  slander  against  him,  and  their  horrible  slanders 
were  eagerly  snapped  up  by  the  gossip-mongers.  As 
a  matter  of  fact,  he  was  less  than  eighteen  at  the  time  he 
was  supposed  to  be  so  "awful,"  and  he  had  only  been 
a  King  in  any  sense  his  own  master  for  about  a  year 


354       John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

and  five  months.  He  has  very  far  from  a  bad  counte- 
nance: he  is  pale,  hke  all  Portuguese,  and  will  be  stout 
like  his  father,  but  he  is  not  yet  by  any  means  fat.  His 
manner  is  good  and  quiet,  without  pretensions  or  pose, 
simply  like  a  well-bred,  simple  gentleman  who  does  not 
want  to  "figure."  He  spoke  to  each  of  the  wounded 
men,  not  "condescendingly"  at  all,  but  with  a  gentle, 
unassuming  sympathy:  and  I  noticed  that  they  did  not 
feel  shy  or  embarrassed  with  him,  as  they  would  have 
done  had  he  been  patronizing.  When  he  talked  to  them 
it  was  in  a  low  voice  to  them  only.  When  he  smiles 
his  face  is  very  pleasant  and  kindly,  and  indeed  I  should 
say  that  kindness  was  the  most  noticeable  trait  in  him. 

.  .  .  During  such  a  war  there  should  be  no  such  names 
as  Liberal  and  Conservative,  it  should  be  "Englishman" 
only:  and  he  is  a  poor  Englishman  who  helps  foreign 
countries  to  believe  that  the  Enghsh  Government  is 
rotten.  The  simple  question  every  Englishman  should 
ask  himself  is,  "Whom  does  this  agitation  against  our 
Rulers  serve  .^  If  it  tends  to  strengthen  our  enemy,  and  to 
ourselves,  can  it  be  English  policy?" 

Now  I  will  dry  up.  .  .  . 

Don't  let "down"  you  with  waggings  of  the  head 

about  poor  King  Manuel.  He  is  the  victim  of  a  very 
mean  and  dastardly  series  of  Hbels,  which  he  had  no 
means  of  disproving,  since  the  anarchist  press  of  Portugal 
was  beyond  the  reach  of  anyont. 

Friday  Mornings  December  3,  191 5 

...  I  WROTE  you  a  long  letter  the  night  before  last 
to  post  yesterday,  and  to-day  shall  not  be  able  to  write 
you  another  long  one,  (i),  because  I  have  nothing  to 
say  —  and  (2),  because  I  have  not  much  time.  This 
morning  and  yesterday  morning  began  like  Wednesday, 
fine,  very  warm,  with  a  sort  of  clear  darkness,  and  a 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother       355 

wonderful,  indefinably  sweet  air:  and  both  days  turned 
to  rain  almost  as  soon  as  it  was  really  light.  To-day  it  is 
■pouring,  but  still  extraordinarily  warm. 

The  alb  arrived  from  Mary  this  morning;  she  was 
so  stingy  over  brown  paper  that  it  got  wet  and  grubby 
on  the  way.  It  is  always  hard  to  induce  servants  to 
use  enough  packing  paper,  and  our  house  is  crammed 
with  it,  kept  precisely  to  be  used  on  these  occasions. 
Fortunately,  the  silk  girdles  were  rolled  up  inside  the 
alb  and  so  they  were  not  wet  or  injured,  I  daresay 
she  thought  that  by  using  a  very  little  paper  she  would 
save  postage,  but  it  only  causes  me  to  have  to  spend 
I  franc  50  to  get  the  alb  washed,  which  it  need  not  have 
been  if  it  had  not  got  dirty  on  the  way. 

I  got  one  letter  from  you  yesterday  and  to-day  two 
letters,  very  chatty,  cheery  and  pleasant  and  I  thank  you 
heartily  for  them.  I  send  you  a  New  York  Herald  with 
an  excellent  letter  from  Roosevelt. 

To-morrow  I  am  going  to  Paris  to  luncheon  with  the 
Marquise  de  Montebello  and  I  know  I  shall  enjoy  it; 
she  is  so  pleasant,  such  excellent  company,  and  cheery 
and  amusing.  I  shall  go  to  one  of  the  big  shops  and  get 
you  some  more  Christmas  cards:  there  is  no  choice  here 
at  Versailles:  and  everything  here  costs  more  than  in 
Paris.     I  must  dry  up,  though  the  day  won't  hear  of  it. 

Friday  Night,  December  3,  191 5 

...  It  is  rather  late,  and  the  heavy,  almost  hot 
weather  makes  me  feel  sleepy,  so  I  shall  not  write  either 
a  long  or  a  brilliant  letter,  but  I  want  to  get  one  ready 
for  to-morrow's  mail.  I  go  in  to  Paris  early  to-morrow, 
as  Madame  de  Montebello's  luncheon  is  at  twelve, 
and  from  door  to  door  (from  mine  to  hers)  takes  over 
an  hour,  and  I  have  several  things  to  do  first. 

Your  parcel  containing  the  kettle-holder  for  me,  and 
the  very  pretty  gift  for  Miss  Maria  Pringle,  came  this 


356       John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

evening.  I  will  send  it  on  to  her  on  Sunday,  and  I 
am  sure  she  will  be  delighted:  it  is  really  pretty  and 
artistic,  and  extremely  well  made;  and,  as  made  by  you, 
she  will  value  it  much  more. 

The  kettle-holder  is  just  what  I  wanted,  and  will  be 
very  useful.  The  little  razor  pad  is  not  nearly  worn  out 
yet,  and  will  last  for  a  long  while  still.  I  sent  off  the 
second  volume  of  Lord  Lyons  to-day,  and  I  hope  it  will 
interest  you.  As  I  have  said  before,  it  lacks  the  sort  of 
entertaining  chit-chat  that  is  often  the  particular  at- 
traction of  reminiscences,  but  it  is  exactly  characteristic 
of  the  man — truthful,  thorough,  and  giving  an  exact  idea 
of  the  work  and  difficulties  a  great  diplomatist  has  to  do 
and  struggle  against.  He  did  not  know  the  meaning  of 
intrigue,  and  he  was  a  standing  contradiction  of  the 
witty  saying  that  a  great  diplomatist  is  a  man  who  "lies 
abroad  for  the  good  of  his  country."  He  was  the  in- 
carnation of  discretion,  and  that  is  why  there  is  so  little 
tittle-tattle  in  the  book.  Lord  Newton  is  the  head  of 
the  very  ancient  family  of  Legh  of  Lyme  Hall  (they 
were  not  peers  when  you  and  I  visited  Lyme  nearly,  if 
not  quite,  fifty  years  ago).  He  earned  his  peerage  by 
being  a  very  good  diplomatist  himself. 

Mrs.  Wilfred  Ward's  short  account  of  her  great-uncle 
in  private  life  is  excellent;  it  was  impossible  to  give  an 
"intimate"  picture  of  him,  because  even  in  private  life 
he  was  not  intimate;  his  shyness  was  more  noticeable 
in  private  than  in  pubhc,  and  I  think  he  used  it  as  a  weapon 
against  possible  indiscretions  of  people  who  might  think 
they  knew  him  well  enough  to  ask  questions.  She 
speaks  of  his  extraordinary  habit  of  talking  sheer  non- 
sense in  private  life  —  another  trick  to  avoid  the  traps 
and  pitfalls  of  "serious"  conversations.  As  the  book 
has  to  end  with  his  death  it  leaves  one  rather  tantalised 
as  to  the  final  occupation  of  Egypt  by  ourselves,  and  the 
good  relations  that  grew  up  at  last  between  us  and 
France  —  after   that   occupation,  which  the  French  had 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother       357 

been  so  long  fearing,  had  become  ?ifait  accompli  that  they 
had  to  make  the  best  of.  Lord  Lyons  was  shrewdly 
alive  to  French  faults,  and  especially  to  the  faults  of  the 
French  politicians  (always  the  worst  class  in  France) 
with  whom  he  had  most  to  do:  and  he  was  always  the 
reverse  of  gushing  and  always  utterly  British.  But  it 
is  evident  that  he  liked  France  and  the  French  all  the 
same,  and  sincerely  wished  England  and  her  nearest 
neighbour  to  pull  together:  also  it  is  perfectly  plain  that 
he  understood,  as  few  English  politicians  did,  how  per- 
sistently Bismarck  worked  to  breed  bad  blood  between 
the  English  and  the  French:  and  that  he  fully  understood 
why,  mainly  because  he  fathomed  from  the  start  the 
whole  Prussian  programme  of  universal  mastery  in 
Europe  and  the  world. 

Also  Lord  Lyons  does  justice  to  the  Empress  Eugenie 
and  shows  the  injustice  of  the  fable  that  the  war  of  1870 
was  forced  by  her. 

On  the  whole  the  book  is  much  better  than  amusing, 
a  worthy  monument  to  a  simple  and  great  man,  of  a 
sort  that  hardly  exists  now,  whose  whole  idea  was  silent 
service  and  duty,  efficiency,  and  the  sinking  of  himself  in 
the  interests  of  England:  he  had  no  axe  of  his  own  to 
grind  and  was  not  out  for  his  own  name  and  fame. 

After  this  long  essay  I  will  go  to  bed. 

So  good-night  and  may  only  happy  dreams  visit  you. 

Sunday,  December  5,  191 5 

...  I  DARESAY  you  are  getting  my  letters  rather 
irregularly  just  now,  and  so,  on  some  days,  none.  I  have 
written  each  day,  but  the  boats  often  do  not  cross  now. 
To-day  I  had  a  double  mail  with  two  letters  from  you, 
written  on  Wednesday  and  Thursday.  I  will  get  the 
drinking  chocolate  and  send  it  you  to-morrow:  I  am  so 
glad  you  Hke  it:  why  not  let  Kearney  make  your  cocoa  of 
this  only,  and  not  use  the  Salisbury  stuff  at  all:    it  is 


358       John  Ayscough^s  Letters  to  his  Mother 

quite  cheap  and  I  could  easily  send  you  two  or  three 
dozen  of  the  small  packets  at  a  time;  it  comes  from  the 
French  Colonies  and  they  prepare  everything  so  care- 
fully and  well. 

Yesterday  I  went  to  luncheon  with  the  Marquise  de 
Montebello,  and  had  a  very  nice  time.  We  were  six :  herself, 
myself,  her  husband's  eldest  brother,  the  Duke  de  Monte- 
bello, and  his  younger  brother  the  Count,  her  sister 
(Mrs.  Hope  Vere),  and  Madame  Beyens,  the  wife  of  the 
Belgian  Minister  for  Foreign  Affairs:  all  interesting, 
clever  people,  and  very  pleasant  indeed.  The  house  is 
charming,  too,  and  the  luncheon  was  excellent.  Mrs. 
Hope  Vere  wants  to  go  to  England,  but  though  she  has 
her  passports,  etc.,  she  can't  get  across.  They  warn 
her  that  the  boats  are  running  very  irregularly  and 
often  are  not  able  to  run  at  all,  because  the  storms  have 
filled  the  Channel  with  drifting  mines  that  have  broken 
loose  and  are  wandering  about  vaguely.  So  you  see  that 
if  I  were  going  over  I  should  have  a  certain  amount  of 
difficulty  and  now  you  need  not  picture  me  being  sent  to 
the  bottom  by  a  wandering  mine.  The  Duke  de  Monte- 
bello is  very  nice,  but  he  has  just  lost  his  wife,  and  he 
looks  very  sad.  The  Count  is  a  great  joker  and  excellent 
company.  Of  course  one  had  heard  plenty  of  M.  Beyens, 
the  Belgian  Foreign  Secretary,  and  I  found  his  wife 
very  interesting,  cordial,  and  agreeable.  She  is  young, 
about  eight  and  twenty,  I  should  say.  It  was  quite 
hot  yesterday  and  so  it  is  to-day,  but  not  a  bit  healthy. 

I  must  dash  off  to  hospital. 

Monday  Evening,  December  6,  191 5 

.  .  .  The  weather  is  still  the  same  —  wild,  windy, 
ever  raining,  and  still  warm.  But  to-day  we  had  a  mail, 
and  I  got  your  letter  of  Friday,  not  at  all  delayed. 

I  enclose  now  the  stuff  I  bought  you  for  putting  on  the 
pretty  things  you  make:    this  sort  of  *'galoon"  adds  a 


John  AyscougFs  Letters  to  his  Mother       359 

wonderful  finish  and  cachet  to  them.  I  also  enclose 
eighteen  more  Christmas  cards  for  you  to  send  off  to 
whomsoever  you  will:  some  rather  pretty,  but  nothing 
wonderful:  the  truth  is  there  was  not  much  choice  even 
in  Paris,  for  the  Christmas  card  custom  has  not,  I  sup- 
pose, caught  on  here  very  much.  Even  in  the  enormous 
"Louvre,"  where  there  were  thousands  of  people  buying 
things,  there  was  no  large  assortment  of  Christmas 
cards  (of  picture  post-cards,  millions).  Also  I  send  the 
various  short  lengths  of  passementerie  meant  to  make 
belts  of,  or  to  trim  hats  or  to  trim  evening  gowns.  I  have 
put  the  names  of  the  people  I  meant  them  for,  but  if 
you  think  well  these  names  may  be  shuffled.  I  told  you 
I  was  reading  another  Ambassador's  life  (Sir  Robert 
Morier's),  but  I  don't  think  I  shall  send  it  on  to  you: 
it  is  instructive,  but  he  was  a  specialist  on  Germany 
and  the  book  is  stuffed  with  regular  essays  on  German 
politics  and  developments,  and  it  wants  a  very  detached 
mind  to  be  able  to  enter  into  that  just  now:  /  can't 
enter  into  it  sympathetically.  It  is  true  that  Morier 
loathed  Bismarck  and  was  loathed  by  him,  and  that 
Morier  hated  the  Bismarckian  policy  of  iron  and  blood: 
but  he  was  hand  in  glove  with  Baron  Stockmar  and  the 
Prince  Consort,  and  earnestly  desired  the  unification  of 
Germany  (out  of  the  hotch-potch  of  independent  States 
of  which  it  consisted  before  1870  and  the  Franco-Prussian 
war);  he  hated  Napoleon  III  and  was,  above  all  things, 
eager  to  keep  England  apart  from  France.  Whereas 
it  was  the  policy  of  Russia  to  prevent  German  unification, 
as  Russia  all  along  had  the  sense  to  see  that  a  militant 
German  Empire  would  be  the  greatest  menace  to  Europe, 
and  that  a  Germany  united  under  Prussian  emperors, 
would  inevitably  be  militant.  Our  desire  to  see  France 
terrorised  by  a  very  strong  German  neighbour,  was,  as 
I  have  thought  since  boyhood  (since  1870),  our  terrible 
mistake,  and  it  is  the  mistake  we  are  paying  for  now. 
Thus,  it  seems  to  me,  all  the  while  I  am  reading  of  Morier's 


360       John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

energetic  efforts  to  make  England  sympathise  with  and 
help  the  efforts  for  German  unity,  that  he  was  simply 
mistaken  and  that  we  ought  to  have  been  helping  France 
and  Russia  instead.  The  other  states  of  Germany, 
except  Baden,  by  no  means  wanted  to  range  themselves 
under  Prussia:  and  as  long  as  they  remained  separate 
and  half  of  them  looked  to  Austria  as  their  chieftain, 
there  was  no  chance  of  a  European  menace  from  Ger- 
many. But  Morier  was  besotted  with  the  idea  that 
the  Germans  and  English  were  cousins,  and  should  be 
dear  friends,  and  for  that  friendship  he  worked  tooth 
and  nail.  Queen  Victoria  herself  was  much  less  Ger- 
manophile  than  Morier,  and  it  was  from  him  she  received 
instruction  as  to  Germany  and  its  politics.  So  far  as 
I  have  got  (before  1870)  it  does  not  seem  to  occur  to  him 
that  in  Germany  was  to  arise  the  implacable  rival  of 
England.  It  is  fair  to  say  that  even  already  I  can  see 
how  he  hated  and  feared  Bismarck;  and  how  he  built 
everything  on  the  chance  of  what  would  happen  when  the 
Crown  Prince  (the  Emperor  Frederick)  should  succeed: 
whereas  the  Emperor  Frederick  only  assumed  the  crown 
to  die,  and  his  son,  the  present  Emperor,  was  a  worse 
Bismarck  than  B.  himself.  I  thought  that  lurid  article 
on  his  madness  would  interest  you.  His  son,  the  Crown 
Prince,  is  still  madder,  and  a  hopeless  degenerate. 
Now  I  must  stop  and  pack  up  my  parcel. 

Thursday  Evening,  December  9,  191 5 

.  .  .  This  morning  I  received  your  two  letters,  one  of 
which  enclosed  a  letter  for  Miss  Maria  Pringle  that  I 
posted  at  once:  she  will  receive  it  to-morrow.  Also  I 
received  the  parcel  containing  the  foot-warmer,  which 
is  splendid,  just  what  I  shall  find  delightfully  comfortable 
when  this  spell  of  warm  wet  weather  is  past. 
'  I  fired  off  the  Joan  of  Arc  to  Winifred  Gater,  and  a 
large  bottle  of  eau  de  cologne  to  Mrs.  Gater.     I  duly 


John  AyscougFs  Letters  to  his  Mother       361 

received  the  eighteen  mortuary  cards  a  few  days  ago  and 
have  started  saying  the  Masses.  F.  came  this  morning 
and  I  took  him  to  luncheon  at  the  Hotel  des  Reservoirs: 
it  joins  the  chateau  and  is  a  palace  itself,  the  quasiroyal 
abode  of  Madame  de  Pompadour,  with  her  arms  still 
on  the  front  of  it,  carved  in  stone.  It  stands  in  such  a 
striking  position,  and  in  such  an  intimate  neighbourhood 
to  the  chateau  that  it  seems  to  challenge  remark  and 
comment.  To  have  had,  as  Madame  du  Barry  had 
afterwards,  her  own  suite  of  apartments  in  the  chateau 
would  have  been  far  less  challenging  to  public  comment. 
The  interior  is  fine,  and  the  rooms  quite  palatial.  While 
we  were  at  luncheon  I  said  to  F.,  "There  is  a  party  of 
ladies  in  the  corner  there  whom  I  can't  quite  make  out: 
one  looks  quite  a  lady,  the  other  four  very  'ordinary' 
and  I'm  wondering  if  they  are  English."  A  few  minutes 
afterwards  one  of  the  ladies  got  up  and  came  over  to  me 
saying,  "The  Duchess  of  Vendome  hopes  you  will  come 
and  talk  to  her  as  soon  as  you  have  finished  your  lunch- 
eon." We  went  to  her  table  and  she  was  most  friendly; 
made  me  sit  down,  offered  us  coffee  and  cigarettes,  and 
kept  us  talking  for  over  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  She  is 
tall,  fair,  with  blue  eyes,  light  hair  and  a  very  aquiline 
nose,  rather  like  her  brother.  King  Albert.  She  has  small 
and  pretty  hands,  and  her  manners  are  very  simple  and 
nice  (not  nearly  so  royal  as  our  own  royalties).  She 
seems  an  excellent  woman,  much  given  to  good  works. 
I  don't  know  the  names  of  any  of  her  ladies.  Then  we 
went  (in  the  rain)  to  look  at  the  Salle  de  Menus  Plaisirs 
where  the  National  Assembly  sat  which  inaugurated  the 
Revolution. 

Finally  I  splashed  home  through  the  wind  and  rain 
and  that  is  the  end  of  my  day's  doings.  I  am  always 
delighted  if  I  have  anything  to  put  into  a  letter,  and  I 
daresay  the  Princess  would  be  surprised  if  she  knew 
that  all  the  time  I  was  saying  to  myself,  "You'll  go 
well  into  my  letter  to-night." 


362       John  AyscougFs  Letters  to  his  Mother 

Monday y  December  13,  191 5 

...  I  HAVE  been  toiling  through  letters  till  I'm  dizzy; 
and  now  I  am  too  stupid  and  too  hurried  to  write  you 
more  than  a  "bulletin." 

It  is  now  bitterly  cold  again,  and  I  am  taking  great 
comfort  out  of  the  foot-muff,  as  Wilcox  calls  it,  which 
you  made  me.  I  had  not  intended  to  begin  using  it 
till  Christmas;  but  perhaps  it  will  be  ever  so  warm  then, 
and  it  is  certainly  cold  enough  now.  So  I  thought  it 
more  sensible  to  take  advantage  of  it.  You  could  not 
have  made  or  bought  me  anything  which  would  have 
given  me  so  many  hours  of  comfort.  Last  Christmas 
you  gave  me  a  pair  of  wool-lined  gloves  (I'm  wearing 
them  now,  every  day)  and  I  should  like  a  new  pair  for 
New  Tear's  Day  but  not  before. 

I  had  a  nice  letter  from  Bessie  in  which  she  says  your 
courage  and  cheerfulness  make  her  ashamed.  I  do  think 
you  are  splendid  and  it  just  prevents  my  heart  breaking. 

Yesterday  our  mail  only  came  in  about  two  in  the 
afternoon  and  to-day  it  has  not  come  in  at  all:  not 
yet,  at  least. 

Your  letter  dated  Saturday  came  yesterday,  acknowl- 
edging my  parcel  of  parcels.  I'm  so  glad  you  think 
the  gold  galoon  pretty  —  /  did! 

F.,  after  lunching  with  the  Duke  and  Duchess  of 
Trevise,  came  here,  and  was  very  nice:  then  we  sallied 
forth  to  give  tea  to  Lady  Austin-Lee.  F.  and  I  are 
lunching  with  her  on  Saturday.  She  evidently  likes  her 
little  tea-parties  with  us,  and  certainly  we  owe  her  them. 

Monday  Night,  December  13,  191 5 

...  I  TOLD  you  we  had  no  mails  this  morning,  but  one 
cropped  up  to-night.  It  brought  your  letter  of  Friday 
saying  you  had  heard  of  Mary's  safe  arrival  at  Hereford. 
I  think  Hill  is  a  good  sort. 


John  Ays  cough's  Letters  to  his  Mother       363 

F.  came  after  luncheon  to-day  and  we  went  to  tea  with 
his  nuns,  i.e.  those  who  "soigner"  his  hospital:  they  are 
very  nice,  and  simple,  warm-hearted  creatures,  like 
Irish  nuns.  There  were  some  other  nuns  there  of  another 
Order,  who  had  just  arrived,  after  twenty-four  years  in 
Turkey,  whence  they  have  been  kicked  out.  They 
looked  rather  cowed,  and  as  if  they  had  seen  ghosts :  but 
gentle,  amiable  creatures.  Anyway,  they're  in  uncom- 
monly good  quarters  now.  I  met  a  young  soldier  (French) 
yesterday  who  was  reported  dead  for  eight  months. 
He  said,  "After  being  dead  officially  for  so  long  it  was 
rather  hard  to  persuade  the  authorities  I  was  'alive.'" 
"We  shall  have  to  inform  your  parents,"  they  said. 
*'0h,  they  won't  mind :  I've  been  corresponding  with  them 
since  three  days  after  I  was  wounded." 

Wednesday  Night,  December  15,  191 5 

...  I  HAD  your  letter  of  Sunday  last  this  evening 
and  I  am  glad  to  hear  poor  Mary  got  safe  back  to  you. 
Her  long  journey  in  such  weather  could  have  been  no 
catch.  Also  I  am  glad  you  liked  the  things  I  sent  for 
you  to  see  and  send  on. 

I  went  to  call  on  the  Marquise  de  Montebello  to-day 
but  she  was  out,  and  I  found  a  letter  from  her  when  I 
got  back,  saying  she  is  coming  on  Friday  and  wants  me 
to  give  her  tea.  F.  takes  very  kindly  to  our  English  tea 
and  makes  a  square  meal  of  it. 

I  enclose  another  letter  from  D.  R.,  with  some  very  odd 
spelling  mistakes;  he  "new"  Aunt  Matilda,  who  lived 
"alonside"  him.  Grandpapa's  testimonial  would  have 
been  rather  inflated  for  the  Admirable  Crichton.  No 
wonder  he  (the  doctor)  thinks  highly  of  his  judgment,  etc. 

I  sent  Christie  the  "classeur, "  as  they  call  the  thing 
for  letter  paper.  If  I  see  any  other  pretty  thing  for  her 
I  will  send  it,  as  she  does  not  want  the  black  lace  veil. 

Miss  Stewart  in  her  letter  told  me  this  yarn:  Two  men 
went  into  a  restaurant: 


364       John  Ayscough^s  Letters  to  his  Mother 

Mr.  A.:      I  want  Turkey  —  without  Greece. 
Waitress:    O  dear!     I  suppose  you're  Germany? 
Mr.  A.       No,  I'm  only  Hungary. 
Mr.  B.        Don't  Russia  (rush  her)  or  she  won't  Servia. 

(serve  yer). 
Mr.  A.:      If  she   won't   I    shan't    Roumania    (remain 

'ere). 

It  is  now  Thursday  morning  (I  don't  mean  to  imply 
that  I've  been  writing  all  night)  and  a  very  disagreeable, 
slushy,  dirty-looking  morning,  too.  I've  seen  more 
weather  at  Versailles  than  during  all  the  rest  of  my  life, 
I  think. 

I  am  sorry  this  is  such  a  rotten  letter,  but  I  have 
nothing  to  tell  you  except  that  I  wish  I  could  come  and 
give  you  a  little  hug  and  see  how  you  were  looking. 

I  was  quite  uefeated  by  the  life  of  Sir  Robert  Morier 
and  really  had  to  give  it  up.  He  belauds  and  glorifies 
the  Germans  chapter  after  chapter,  and  spends  his  life 
working  for  an  alliance  between  us  and  Prussia,  and  I 
can  only  regret  that  he  succeeded  even  to  the  extent 
he  did:  and  his  raptures  at  the  defeat  of  France  by 
Prussia  in  1870  are  very  little  to  my  taste,  as  you  can 
imagine. 

I  must  dry  up,  so  with  best  love  to  Christie. 

Saturday  Evening,  December  18,  191 5 

.  .  .  To-day  I  had  your  dear  little  letter  of  Wednes- 
day and  one  from  Christie  too,  full  of  affection.  Mrs. 
Gater  wrote  and  announced  the  dispatch  of  a  brace  of 
pheasants:  they  also  have  not  yet  arrived  —  if  the 
post  office  delays  them  very  long  I  should  think  they 
would  get  out  and  walk  and  arrive  in  a  long  procession! 
It  was  very  good  of  her  to  send  so  nice  a  present,  and 
pheasants  will  be  a  treat.  One  never  sees  game  here, 
even  in  the  shops. 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother       365 

Though  the  manor  house  plum  pudding  has  not  yet 
cropped  up,  a  plum  pudding  has  arrived  from  the  Prioress 
of  the  Atherstone  Benedictine  nuns;  whose  name  in  the 
world  was  Drew.  It  is  a  chumping  big  one,  and  even 
Wilcox  could  not  eat  it  at  one  go.  Bessie  sent  to-day 
two  very  nice  silk  handkerchiefs,  but  they  do  not  clash 
with  Christie's,  for  hers  are  white  and  these  are  khaki- 
green,  so  now  I  am  at  Hberty  to  have  a  cold  in  my  head. 

This  morning  F.  and  I  went  to  luncheon  with  the 
Austin-Lees  and  they  were  both  7nost  amiable.  F.  finds 
his  god-mamma  more  and  more  trying  at  close  quarters, 
and  she  is  evidently  not  in  the  sweetest  of  tempers. 
She  lectures  him  on  manners  and  social  ways,  of  which 
she  knows  no  more  than  a  kangaroo.  I  believe  if  they 
go  on  together  much  longer  they  will  come  to  blows! 
She  is  sugary  outside,  but  so  are  pills. 

Sunday 

I  have  just  received  two  very  nice  silk  handkerchiefs 
from  Alice  and  a  very  affectionate  letter  with  them. 
I  also  received  your  cheery  little  letter  of  Thursday. 
But  I  must  dry  up  and  can  write  no  more  till  this  evening. 


Wednesday  Morning,  December  22,  191 5 

...  I  BEGIN  with  wishing  you  a  Happy  Christmas, 
for  this  letter  can't  reach  you  before  Christmas  Eve, 
and  perhaps  will  only  reach  you  on  Christmas  Day. 
So  I  do  wish  it  you:  that  we  cannot  be  together  is  the 
great  blot  on  our  Christmas,  but  it  is  not  our  fault, 
and  as  it  is  a  sacrifice  to  duty  it  ought  to  bring  a  recom- 
pense and  blessing.  I  confess  that  /  shall  be  ten  times 
lighter-hearted  when  Christmas  is  past,  and  especially 
when  1916  has  arrived. 

To-day  is  a  day  of  ghastly  weather;  through  a  sky  like 
skim  milk  and  warm  water,  a  drizzling  rain  oozes  down. 


366       John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

It  is  muggy,  warm,  mild,  and  reeky;  the  walls  are  sweat- 
ing like  Malta  in  a  sirocco  —  I  don't  mean  the  walls 
of  my  rooms,  for  a  good  fire  keeps  them  dry.  It  is  so 
dark  in  the  chapel  of  the  convent  while  I  say  Mass  that 
my  eyes  get  quite  strained  reading  —  though  they  have 
gas  lighting,  it  seems  as  if  the  rain  got  into  the  gas-pipes. 
Yesterday  was  just  the  same,  and  though  Lady  Austin- 
Lee  and  Marquise  de  Montebello  were  engaged  to  come 
to  tea  with  F.  and  me  I  did  not  expect  them  to  turn  up: 
however,  they  did,  and  it  was  very  good  fun.  I  must 
say  that  I  think  it  was  very  nice  of  them  to  come  all  the 
way  from  Paris,  in  pouring  rain,  for  a  cup  of  tea  in  a 
tea-shop.  No  mail  has  arrived  from  England  to-day  — 
as  yet,  at  all  events  —  and  I  am  trembling  for  the  fate 
of  the  Gaterian  pheasants. 

.  .  .  For  the  last  hour  and  a  half  I  have  been  writing 
letters  in  French  to  a  number  of  rather  neglected  cor- 
respondents, who  have  all  reminded  me  of  their  existence 
by  writing  to  me  very  kindly  letters,  full  of  Christmas 
wishes. 

If  I  spent  the  whole  twenty-four  hours  of  each  day 
letter-writing  I  could  not  do  more  than  keep  abreast 
of  my  enormous  correspondence,  and  you  know  how  far 
I  am  from  being  able  to  do  this,  so  that  I  never  can 
keep  abreast  of  it. 

I  can  write  in  French  quite  as  quickly  as  in  English, 
and  perhaps  nearly  as  correctly.  In  English,  I  fear, 
my  spelling  is  rather  running  to  seed,  because  so  many 
words  are  nearly  the  same  in  both  languages,  but  in 
one  with  two  f's  or  I's  or  s's  and  in  the  other  with 
only  one. 

Talking  French  is  very  different  and  I  cannot  talk  it 
nearly  so  quickly  as  English  nor  nearly  so  correctly. 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother       367 

Christmas  Eve^  191 5 

...  I  WISH  I  was  able  to  go  and  sit  by  your  side  and 
tell  you  how  happy  a  day  I  wish  to-morrow  may  be  for 
you.  As  it  is  I  can  only  pray  for  you,  and  ask  Our 
Lord  Himself  to  be  close  to  you. 

By  the  time  you  get  this,  which  will  be  Monday  or 
Tuesday,  Christmas  Day  will  have  passed,  and  I  confess 
I  shall  be  glad.  I  don't  think  you  quite  understand  my 
feeling,  and  perhaps  I  cannot  explain  it  very  intelligently: 
but  it  comes  from  the  contrast  between  the  sense  that 
Christmas  should  be  a  time  of  such  immense  joy,  and 
the  unutterable  suffering  in  which  all  Europe  lies  bleeding. 
To  simply  ignore  all  that  pain  and  anguish  is  beyond  me 
and  so  there  is  a  sort  of  horror  in  the  background  of  any 
Christmas  thought  I  try  to  house  in  my  mind. 

I  have  suddenly  developed  another  abscess  at  the  root 
of  one  of  my  teeth.  It  is  very  worrying  and  painful, 
and  has  made  the  cheek  swell  and  I  cannot  bite  even 
bread.  I  was  to  have  gone  to  a  concert  for  the  patients 
this  afternoon,  but  my  face  is  too  swollen  to  display  in 
public.  The  Gaterian  pheasants  have  still  not  turned 
up  and  I  now  look  forward  to  their  arrival  with  dread! 

F.  and  I  went  to  Madame  de  Montebello's  Christmas 
Tree  yesterday  and  I  think  he  expected  it  to  be  quite 
exciting,  and  it  certainly  was  notl  I  don't  think  a  French 
Christmas  tree  is  half  so  jolly  as  an  English  one.  The 
tree,  very  pretty,  was  cocked  up  on  a  stage  and  the  hall 
was  entirely  filled  with  chairs  on  which  the  guests  sat 
as  if  for  a  concert.  So  there  was  no  moving  about  and 
chatting.  There  were  songs,  and  finally  each  soldier 
received  one  prize  duly  numbered  —  all  very  proper  and 
dull.  Then  F.  and  I  went  to  do  some  shopping,  and 
I  bought  a  souvenir  for  Mrs.  Kearney  and  another  for 
Bert:  and  I  also  bought  some  bits  of  stuff  for  wristbands, 
collar,  etc.,  for  you,  which  I  put  in  a  general  parcel 
containing  things  for  Bert,  Mary,  and  Kearney. 


368       John  Ayscough^s  Letters  to  his  Mother 

Christmas  Day 

.  .  .  Though  the  abscess  in  my  jaw  is  not  gone  nor 
the  outward  swelling  disappeared,  both  are  distinctly 
better,  and  I  am  by  no  means  in  the  extreme  discomfort 
of  yesterday  morning  and  Thursday  night.  I  slept  well 
last  night,  whereas  the  previous  night  I  did  not  sleep 
at  all. 

It  is  what  is  called  an  open  Christmas,  mild,  soft, 
warm,  quite  warm,  but  dark  and  still,  with  a  sort  of  brood- 
ing quietness.  I  said  my  three  Masses  all  in  a  row  at 
the  hospital,  beginning  at  7.30. 

Our  post  has  not  come  in  yet:  it  was  sure  to  be  late 
on  Christmas  Day. 

F.  came  round  to  see  me  yesterday  and  had  tea;  he 
gave  me  a  very  pretty  little  card-case  with  the  Count's 
coronet  on  it  in  silver.  Two  Pringles  sent  me  a  pretty 
match-box  to  wear  on  the  chain,  made  of  Spanish  black 
and  gold  inlay  work  —  really  charming. 

As  I  am  better  I  shall  go  and  lunch  with  the  Austin- 
Lees  and  give  F.  dinner  in  the  evening  at  the  Hotel 
Edouard  VII.  Wilcox  is  dining  with  friends,  and  it 
would  be  a  little  gloomy  all  alone  in  this  Spy  House! 
(Not  that  I  really  think  so.  It  was  my  idea  if  I  were  not 
better  to  go  to  bed  about  two  in  the  afternoon  and  read 
there  in  great  comfort.) 

I  hope  that  you  received  my  humble  offerings  this 
morning  and  that  they  will  have  amused  and  interested 
you. 

And  I  hope  very,  very  earnestly  that  this  day  may  pass 
not  uncheerfully  with  you,  and  that  you  may  have 
happy  thoughts  for  company. 

Don't  be  discouraged  because  public  men  like  Asquith 
talk  of  the  war  lasting  two  years  more  — •  all  that  is  said 
to  make  Germany  understand  that  the  Allies  are  ready 
to  fight  on  and  so  to  make  her  collapse  the  sooner.  The 
more  she  thinks  the  Allies  are  ready  for  a  twenty  years' 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother       369 

War  if  necessary  the  less  heart  will  she  have  to  go  on: 
for  she  knows  she  cannot  face  a  long  war.  Her  men  are 
nearly  used  up  and  her  money  is  all  gone. 

I  must  stop  now.  God  bless  you,  dearest  darling, 
to-day  and  all  days,  and  send  you  three  hundred  and 
sixty-six  happy  days  in  1916. 

Ever,  with  best  love  to  Christie. 


Hotel  Edouard  VII,  Paris 
Christmas  Day  Evening,  6.20  p.m. 

...  I  AM  giving  F.  dinner  here  to-night,  and  he  has 
not  yet  turned  up,  so  I  am  beginning  a  letter  to  you, 
though  I  daresay  I  shall  not  get  very  far  with  it. 

I  wrote  you  a  scrubby  letter  just  before  leaving  Ver- 
sailles this  morning,  and  then  was  off  to  catch  the  train. 
I  was  rather  lucky,  for  though  it  poured  in  torrents  while 
I  was  in  the  train,  it  was  only  trying  to  rain  as  I  went  to 
the  station,  and  had  given  up  trying  as  I  walked  from  the 
Invalides  Station  here  to  the  Austin-Lees.  Then  again 
it  poured  in  tropical  torrents  while  we  were  at  luncheon 
and  grew  beautifully  fine  and  bright  just  as  I  left.  The 
party  consisted  of  themselves,  myself,  a  pretty  little 
Miss  Wood,  who  does  something  at  the  Embassy,  and 
a  young  Mr.  Gwynnes,  I  think:  I  know  it  isn't  either 
Grimm  or  Gwynn:  Irish,  of  good  family,  and  a  grandson 
of  Lord  Fitzgerald  —  and  of  such  is  the  Kingdom  of 
Heaven.  I  have  met  him  there  before:  and  never 
mastered  his  name. 

Lady  Austin-Lee  was  delighted  with  a  tiny  Venetian 
glass  vase  I  found  for  her  Christmas  present  at  Versailles, 
I  got  another  for  Madame  de  Montebello  and  a  third  for 
the  Duchess  of  Wellington;  they  are  real  Venice  glass, 
of  exquisite  colour.  She  had  tons  of  glorious  flowers 
from  various  friends;  her  drawing-room  was  crammed 
with  them. 

She  was  very  amiable  and  invited  me  to  luncheon  again 


370       John  AyscougV s  Letters  to  his  Mother 

on  Wednesday  to  meet  our  friend  Vicomtesse  D'Osmoy 
(pronounced  "Daumois"),  who  is  coming  up  from  her 
chateau  for  two  or  three  days.  I  am  also  lunching  with 
the  Austin-Lees  on  the  following  Wednesday.  Are  they 
not  hospitable.? 

On  Monday  I  am  lunching  with  Madame  de  Monte- 
bello,  and  giving  tea  here,  to  Lady  Austin-Lee  and  Mme. 
D'Osmoy.  Here  is  F.  very  ready  for  dinner,  so  I  must 
dry  up. 

.  .  .  When  I  got  back  from  Paris  last  night  I  found 
my  table  covered  with  letters  —  two  days'  mails.  Two 
from  you,  one  from  Helen,  one  from  Lady  Glenconner 
one  from  Lord  G.,  both  very  affectionate  and  friendly, 
and  a  dozen  others:   also  a  stack  of  parcels: 

1.  The  PHEASANTS  high  but  not  impossible. 

2.  A  plum-pudding  from  the  Darlington  nuns. 

3.  A  box  of  Bayonne  sweetmeats  from  Maria  Pringle. 

4.  A  box  of  excellent  chocolates  made  by  herself  from 

Dora  Hardy. 

5.  A  large   and   excellent   plum-cake   from  the  same, 

about  five  pounds  weight! 

6.  A  box  of  cigarettes  from  Helen. 

7.  A  Calendar  and  Engagement  Tablets  from  young 

Prideaux  of  Lichfield  School. 

All  these  Mr.  Wilcox  had  had  to  carry  round  from 
hospital  under  his  arm!  It  took  me  till  midnight  to 
read  my  letters:   and  then  I  went  to  bed. 

Tuesday^  December  28,  191 5 

.  .  .  No  mails  yet  to-day,  but  one  expected  in  the 
course  of  the  day.  Meanwhile  I  have  only  time  to  say 
"how  do  you  do?"  as,  being  away  so  long  yesterday, 
I  must  go  early  to  hospital  and  get  through  some  work. 

Yesterday  I  lunched  with  Madame  de  Montebello; 
her  cook  is  a  genius,  and  the  company  was  charming: 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother       371 

besides  ourselves  the  Duke  (of  Montebello)  and  a  Count 
and  Countess  and  Mademoiselle  de  Cernay  —  all  really 
nice  people,  "top  hole"! 

I  enclose  a  very  nice  letter  from  the  Duchess  de  San 
Carlos,  who,  as  you  see,  is  a  great  admirer  of  my  books. 
I  do  not  want  her  letter  back.  I  had  a  nice  letter  from 
Helen  to-day  —  rather  hard  to  read!  thanking  me  for  my 
Christmas  gifts.  Also  I  had  your  own  letter  of  Monday 
and  an  excellent  one  from  Mary,  thanking  me  for  her 
presents.  She  really  writes  a  first-rate  letter,  full  of 
devotion  to  you,  and  of  heart.  She  speaks  so  heartily 
and  nicely  of  her  wish  for  my  return,  and  her  regret  for 
your  having  to  be  so  long  without  me.  I  like  her  way 
of  speaking  of  it  — worth  a  hundred  stilted  phrases. 

...  It  is  quite  true,  Colonel  S.  is  off  to-night  —  to 
be  A.D.M.S.  to  the  27th  Division  and  our  "unit"  moves 
to  Boulogne  in  February.  Of  course  I  regret  leaving 
my  very  kind  friends  in  Paris,  but  I  am  glad  otherwise: 
I  have  had  enough  of  Versailles,  and  Boulogne  is  so  very 
near  England.  Possibly,  too,  the  move  may  make  the 
further  move  to  England  a  little  easier. 

We  are  to  have  a  fine  Jesuit  College  outside  the  town, 
on  high  ground,  where  there  is  good  air  and  drainage  — 
and  where  England  can  be  seen! 

...  I  only  wrote  so  far  and  then  stopped.  I  had  had 
to  write  a  lot  of  other  letters,  intending  to  write  yours 
last  when  the  others  should  have  been  polished  off, 
but  I  suddenly  felt  too  tired  to  write  more  and  had  a 
sort  of  palpitation.  The  queer  muggy  weather  before 
Christmas  didn't  suit  me  (it  was  heavy  and  hot)  and  my 
liver  suflFered.  And  also  some  stuff  one  of  our  doctors  gave 
me  for  a  cough  has  upset  my  stomach,  rather.  We  have 
not  yet  received  our  English  mail  and  I  had  none  yester- 
day: so  I  do  not  yet  know  how  you  got  through  Christ- 
mas. 

Yesterday  afternoon  I  gave  tea  (always  at  my  little 


372       John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

"Ceylon  Tea  Rooms")  to  Lady  Austin-Lee,  Vicomtesse 
d'Osmoy,  and  F.  The  last  still  in  the  grip,  the  other 
two  very  amiable  and  nice. 

I  am  going  to  luncheon  with  Lady  Austin-Lee  to- 
morrow, where  Madame  d'Osmoy  will  be  again,  and  also 
a  Miss  Tennyson,  niece  or  great-niece  of  the  poet,  who 
writes  a  lot  and  is  an  industrious  reader  of  John  Ayscough. 

I  am  getting  very  anxious  about  .     He  has  been 

so  amiable  lately  to  me  that  I  find  it  hard  not  to  say, 
"Take  care,  you'll  overstrain  yourself." 

I  have  just  received  a  New  Year's  visit  of  compliment 
from  the  Mother  Superior  of  the  Auxiliatrices  (the  nuns 
at  whose  convent  I  say  Mass  daily)  and  one  of  the  Sisters. 
I  was  very  busy  and  wished  them  at  Jericho,  but  they 
were  cordial  and  pleasant.  I  presented  them  with  a 
magnificent  box  of  Spanish  sweets  just  received  from 
Susan  Pringle:  and  they  seemed  quite  enchanted  with 
them,  though  I  have  no  doubt  they  will  only  give  them 
away  again.  The  Reverend  Mother  is  a  clever,  very 
capable  woman,  who  was  a  Mademoiselle  de  Samale, 
one  of  the  most  aristocratic  of  French  names.  The  con- 
vent, with  its  beautiful  park,  was  her  inheritance  and 
she  (having  no  brothers)  became  a  nun,  and  changed  her 
old  home  into  a  convent:  her  mother  lives  in  a  nice 
house  just  outside  the  convent  boundaries.  Vicomtesse 
de  Samale  is  a  dear  old  lady  (eighty-two)  and  comes  to  my 
Mass  every  day.  She  and  the  nuns  are  always  praying 
for  you.  I  must  stop  now.  So  with  best  love  to  Christie 
and  every  good  wish  for  your  Happy  New  Year. 


Ill 

New  Year  s  Day,  lo  a.m.,  January  i,  1916 

Though  I  wrote  you  a  very  long  letter  last  night  — 
the  last  letter  I  wrote  in  191 5  —  which  has  not  yet  left 
Versailles,  I  must  first  write  a  few  words  to  wish  you 
every  blessing  and  every  happiness  in  the  new-born 
Year,  so  that  my  first  letter  of  1916  may  be  to  you. 

Please  wish  Christie  all  possible  good  luck  from  me, 
too. 

Saturday  Evening,  6  p.m.,  January  i,  1916 

I  HAVE  just  come  in  after  Benediction,  before  which  I 
had  been  giving  Lady  Austin-Lee  tea  in  the  usual  tea- 
rooms of  the  Rue  Hoche.  Someone  had  told  her  that 
our  move  to  Boulogne  is  coming  off  sooner  than  I  was 
told  the  day  before  yesterday:  if  her  informant  is  correct 
we  shall  move  there  in  about  a  fortnight.  I  shall  not  be 
sorry  to  go  earlier  than  I  expected  so  much  nearer  Eng- 
land. It  will  make  no  diflPerence  to  the  addressing  of 
your  letters  to  me,  as  the  address  will  still  be  No.  4 
General  Hospital,  British  Expeditionary  Force. 

At  seven  o'clock  we  {i.e.,  all  the  officers)  are  giving  a 
dinner  party  at  the  Hotel  de  France  here,  to  the  nursing 
staff:  and  I  shall  then  be  able  to  find  out  if  Lady  Austin- 
Lee  was  right  about  our  move  being  so  soon. 

She,  Lady  Austin-Lee,  will  miss  our  hospital;  twice 
every  week  for  fourteen  months  she  has  visited  it,  and 
the  work  has  interested  her  very  much.  She  spoke 
most  regretfully  of  how  much  she  will  miss  me:  and  I 
think  she  really  will.  I  certainly  shall  also  miss  her  and 
all  her  very  kind  hospitality. 

373 


374       John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

Still  I  can't  help  looking  upon  the  move  to  Boulogne 
as  a  very  long  stride  on  the  way  home.  No  place  in 
France  is  nearer  England  than  Boulogne  —  Calais,  per- 
haps? 

To-day,  New  Year's  Day,  is  the  great  day  for  calling 
in  France,  and  I  have  paid  duty  visits  to  Madame  Muttin, 
in;  Madame  Galloo  Feron,  out;  the  Bishop  of  Versailles, 
in;  the  Huntington  family,  in,  but  not  visible  —  it  seems 
that  Mrs.  H.'s  son-in-law,  Mr.  Wilson,  died  the  night 
before  last:  he  has  been  very  ill  a  long  time.  I  had  not 
met  him,  though  I  knew  his  wife. 

Madame  M amused  me  by  begging  me  to  apologise 

to  Lady  Austin-Lee,  Madame  de  Montebello,  and  the 
Pringles  for  not  having  called  upon  them  —  she  being  in 
mourning   (her  last  husband  only  died   ten  years  ago!). 

F.  telegraphed  to  tell  me  he  had  arrived  safely  after  a 
good  journey,  and  the  telegram  arrived  just  as  I  was 
going  to  bed  last  night:  it  rather  frightened  me  for  a 
moment  (for  I  have  received  hardly  any  telegrams  here), 
as  I  dreaded  lest  it  might  be  to  say  you  were  ill. 

New  Year's  Day  has  been  slushy  and  dismal  here: 
rather  sad  for  all  the  holiday-makers.  I  must  get  ready 
to  go  out  to  my  dinner-party:  I  sincerely  hope  I  shall 
not  have  to  make  a  speech! 

May  this  year  bring  you  all  happiness,  and  may  it 
see  you  at  its  end  in  as  good  health  as  now,  and  while  it 
is  still  young  may  it  see  us  together  in  our  quiet  home. 

Wednesday,  January  5,  1916 

I  HAD  no  English  mail  yesterday,  but  your  letter  of 
Sunday  has  just  come.  You  seem  to  think  I  shall  not 
like  going  to  Boulogne,  but  I  do.  It  has  always  been 
"on  my  chest"  how  far  from  you  Versailles  is,  and  no 
place  in  France  is  so  near  to  you,  or  so  accessible,  as 
Boulogne.  Whenever  I  do  get  home  you  need  not  fear 
my  finding  it  dull:    the  less  society,  the  more  and  the 


John  AyscougWs  Letters  to  his  Mother       375 

better  I  can  write:  I  would  fifty  times  rather  be  sitting  at 
my  writing-table  working  than  sitting  in  a  drawing-room 
hearing  society  people  talk.  It  is  true  that  we  have  very 
few  neighbours,  but  it  is  my  home  I  care  for,  not  neigh- 
bours. 

I  have  to  go  in  to  Paris  early,  as  I  am  lunching  with 
Lady  Austin-Lee  at  twelve  (it  takes  quite  an  hour  and  a 
half  to  get  from  door  to  door).  We  lunch  early  to  suit 
Abbe  Dimnet,  who  is  coming  in  from  the  country  on 
purpose  to  meet  J.  A.  _^ 

I  really  must  dash  oflF  or  I  shall  miss  the  only  train 
that  will  get  me  in  in  time. 

With  best  love  to  Christie. 

Very  many  thanks  for  the  specially  pretty  little  card 
of  New  Year  wishes. 

Epiphany  Day,  Thursday y  January  6,  1916 

It  is  an  Ai  wet  day!  Being  Epiphany  I  said  my 
Mass  at  the  hospital  instead  of  at  the  convent,  and  on 
the  way  back  the  rain  was  so  fierce  that  I  got  quite  wet 
—  in  twelve  minutes  or  so.  However,  it  is  not  like  being 
at  the  front:  I  came  in,  changed  into  dry  clothes,  and 
put  the  wet  ones  to  the  fire  to  dry. 

Then  I  had  breakfast,  then  sat  by  the  same  fire  reading 
your  letter  written  on  New  Year's  Day. 

Yesterday  I  lunched  with  the  Austin-Lees,  and  stayed 
a  long  time.  The  only  other  guest  was  Abbe  Dimnet, 
the  writer,  a  very  nice  as  well  as  clever  man.  He  is 
forty-nine  and  looks  about  thirty-two,  and  he  is  very 
cheerful  and  bright,  though  he  has  plenty  to  make  him 
depressed:  he  comes  from  the  north  (of  France,  I  mean) 
and  the  Germans  not  only  occupy  his  town,  but  they 
have  taken  everything  he  possessed,  his  money,  clothes, 
books,  furniture,  everything.  He  and  his  mother  escaped 
with  a  small  hand-bag  between  them,  but  the  German 
scouts   took   that   also,   and   almost   all  his   family   are 


376       John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

prisoners.  After  Sir  Henry  had  gone  back  to  his  work  at 
the  Embassy,  and  Abbe  Dimnet  had  gone,  too,  I  stayed 
on  nearly  two  hours  chatting. 

Looking  up  from  my  writing  I  just  saw  a  sea-gull  in 
the  garden,  a  rare  sight  here:  Paris  is  very  far  from  the 
sea,  and  at  Versailles  we  are  four  miles  from  the  Seine. 

...  I  have  no  patients  in  hospital;  there  are  only 
twenty  patients  altogether,  as  we  are  in  the  thick  of 
packing  up.  Lots  of  doctors  and  nurses  are  gone  on 
leave,  and  of  course  it  would  be  a  good  opportunity  for 
me  to  go:  but  I  think  it  much  safer  to  stick  where  I  am: 
I  want  to  go  to  Boulogne  with  the  unit,  and  feel  sure  that 
it  will  be  much  easier  to  get  home  altogether  then: 
whereas  if  I  applied  for  leave  they  would  very  likely  send 
me  to  some  other  place  altogether,  far  from  the  coast, 
and,  beginning  again  there  (at  perhaps  Marseilles),  they 
would  not  let  me  go  again  soon. 

Sir  Henry  Austin-Lee  was  telling  me  yesterday  of  some 
"neutral"  friend  of  his  who  had  just  come  from  Berlin, 
where  he  also  was  this  time  last  year.  He  said  everything 
is  so  changed:  the  Germans  were  then  cock-a-whoop, 
now  in  the  deepest  depression;  a  universal  gloom  every- 
where, and  in  all  the  towns,  except  Berlin,  downright 
want  and  famine:  everybody  with  only  one  thought  — 
to  end  the  war. 

You  seem  to  be  having  as  bad  (though  certainly  not 
worse)  weather  with  you  as  we  are  getting  here.  How 
ghastly  it  must  be  in  the  trenches!  Are  you  not  glad  I 
am  not  now  at  the  front?  I  must  set  the  weather  a 
good  example  and  dry  up. 

Thursday  Evening,  January  6,  1916 

Just  now  Wilcox  came  in  and  brought  me  a  sort  of 
supplementary  mail;  for  one  came  this  morning;  a 
letter  wishing  me  a  Happy  New  Year  from  the  Duchess 
of  Wellington:   a  parcel  containing  a  present  of  envelopes 


John  Ayscouglos  Letters  to  his  Mother       377 

from  the  two  Agneses:  and  your  own  letter  of  Monday 
—  the  one  this  morning  was  dated  New  Year's  Day  — 
last  Saturday.  The  Duchess  of  Wellington  says  her 
husband,  Colonel  Wellesley,  is  exactly  of  my  opinion 
that  the  German  collapse  is  nearer  than  most  people 
fancy. 

I  must  tell  you  that  the  instant  the  Gaterian  pheasants 
arrived  I  carted  them  into  Paris,  and  gave  one  to  the 
Austin-Lees  and  one  to  Madame  de  Montebello.  Wilcox 
could  neither  have  plucked  nor  trussed  them,  and  as  it 
was  /  ate  them  beautifully  cooked!  And  my  friends  were 
delighted,  as  no  shooting,  except  of  Germans,  is  allowed 
in  France  during  the  War.  Madame  de  Montebello 
served  hers  cold,  surrounded  with  pate  de  foie  gras,  and 
it  was  scrumptious.  She  is,  as  I  told  you,  at  present  at 
Biarritz:   that  was  the  day  before  she  started. 

The  Marquesa  de  San  Carlos  de  Pedroso,  whose  letter 
I  sent  you  (she  is  not  the  Duchess,  that  is  her  husband's 
sister-in-law)  sent  me  a  very  pretty  book  of  lyrics  in 
Spanish,  illuminated,  in  a  vellum  cover. 

Yes,  Cardinal  Merry  del  Val  is  Spanish  —  at  least 
half  so.  His  father  was  Spanish  Ambassador  to  the 
Holy  See,  his  mother  was  half  French,  half  English,  and 
he  speaks  four  languages  as  if  they  were  his  mother 
tongue,  English  (for  he  was  educated  in  England), 
Spanish,  French,  and  Italian.  When  he  was  Secretary 
of  State  to  the  late  Pope,  he  was  always  very  civil  and 
kind  to  me. 

After  Mass  yesterday  the  Reverend  Mother's  mother, 
Vicomtesse  de  Samale,  came  to  thank  me  for  a  little 
New  Year's  gift  I  had  sent  her.  She  is  a  dear  old  lady, 
of  eighty-two,  very  pretty,  and  with  sweet,  gracious, 
old-lady  manners.  We  talked  much  of  you,  and  she 
says  she  is  often  praying  for  you. 

She  is  terribly  grieved  at  all  our  soldiers  leaving  Ver- 
sailles, and  says,  "I  do  love  them"  and  then,  with  a  funny 
little  face,  "Before  the  war  I  couldn't  bear  them!" 


378       John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

Of  course  I  laughed,  and  she  said,  "That  comes  of  not 
knowing  people.  We  had  never  seen  the  good  English 
then,  and  only  had  an  old  tradition  of  their  enmity  to 
us. 

The  little  present  I  gave  pleased  her  so  much.  It 
was  a  very  little  vase  of  real  Venetian  glass  I  had  picked 
up,  of  brilliant  and  exquisite  colours,  laced  with  gold. 
I  found  four,  all  different,  and  all  four  have  been  im- 
mensely appreciated.  One  I  gave  to  the  Marquise  de 
Montebello,  one  I  gave  to  Lady  Austin-Lee,  one  I  gave 
to  Madame  de  Samale,  and  the  fourth  I  sent  to  the 
Duchess  of  Wellington;    it  arrived  quite  safely,  and  she 

thinks  it  lovely  —  as  it  was!     I  showed  them  to  , 

but  he  had  not  enough  taste  in  such  things  to  admire 
them,  or  to  know  how  good  they  were.  .  .  . 

What  matches  all  those  Tennants  make!  The  fact  is 
they  are  all  very  good-looking  and  all  clever.  .  .  .  Lord 
Glenconner's  own  children  are  naturally  both  clever  and 
handsome,  for  he  is  a  handsome  and  clever  man,  and 
they  have  also  the  Wyndham  beauty  and  extraordinary 
cleverness  and  brilliancy  to  draw  upon.  The  only 
Wyndham  I  ever  met  who  was  less  than  brilliant  was  poor 
young  Percy,  who  was  killed  at  the  beginning  of  this  war, 
and  he  was  wonderfully  handsome.  Lady  Glenconner's 
parents  were  both  brilliantly  clever  and  singularly  good- 
looking.  Old  Mrs.  Percy  Wyndham  inherited  the  good 
looks  of  her  grandmother  "Pamela"  (Lady  Edward 
Fitzgerald,  daughter  of  the  Due  d'Orleans,  or  else  not,  as 
the  Scotch  say.) 

Saturday^  January  8,  1916 

My  last  two  letters  have  been  long,  so  you  must  not 
mind  if  this  is  a  short  one. 

The  latest  news  I  have  heard  about  our  move  is  that 
we  leave  here  on  Monday  week,  or  Tuesday  week,  i.e.y 
the  seventeenth  or  eighteenth. 

And  further  that  we  do  not  go  to  Boulogne  itself,  but 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother       379 

to  a  place  called  Dannes-Camier,  near  Boulogne:  which 
being  quite  in  the  country,  fifteen  or  eighteen  miles  from 
B.,  is  supposed  to  be  more  suitable  for  a  hospital.  It  is 
on  the  sea  and  very  healthy,  whereas  B.  is  supposed  to  be 
rather  drainy,  i.e.,  undrainedy. 

...  I  like  the  idea  of  this  quiet,  secluded  spot  on  the 
sea,  and  do  not  regret  not  going  to  B.  itself.  I  have 
been  there  several  times  and  have  seen  all  there  is  to  be 
seen. 

I  overslept  this  morning,  and  instead  of  getting  up  at 
5.30  only  got  up  at  7.15.  So  I  am  behind-hand  with 
everything. 

This  afternoon  I  am  to  give  tea  to  Lady  Austin-Lee. 

I  am  feeling  better:  just  before  and  after  Christmas  I 
was  out  of  sorts:  the  truth  is  that  that  season  always 
makes  me  melancholy:  it  is  all  wrong,  I  know,  but  it  is 
so. 

Tuesday,  January  11,  19 16 

No  letter  from  you  by  to-day's  mail,  but  I  think  it  is 
only  a  ^<2//-mail,  for  there  were  no  letters  from  anyone  in 
England,  only  newspapers  and  some  letters  from  France: 
so  very  likely  I  shall  have  a  letter  from  you  later  in  the 
day. 

Yesterday  I  was  not  well,  and  1  stayed  in  bed  all  day. 
The  malady  I  told  you  of  is  really  bothering  me  and 
very  painful.  In  bed  I  was  very  comfortable,  but  I  got 
up  at  5.30  to-day  and  said  Mass  as  usual. 

F.  turned  up  yesterday,  and  came  round  here  at  once 
on  arrival  from  home.  He  had  been  travelling  the  whole 
night  and  looked  quite  worn  out:  and,  poor  boy,  he  was 
terribly  sad;  he  tried  to  speak  of  what  he  should  lose  by 
my  going  but  could  not,  and  could  only  cry.  I  do  feel 
very  much  for  him,  for  really  there  is  no  one  here  whom 
he  cares  for  except  me,  and  no  one  of  his  own  sort  whom 
he  knows  except  the  Duke  and  Duchess  of  Trevise,  who 
are  quite  new  friends.     I  fancy  his  visit  home  was  very 


380       John  Ayscough^s  Letters  to  his  Mother 

dismal:  his  father  kind,  but  sad  and  aloof,  and  his  poor 
old  grandmother  dying  and  childish;  quite  cheerful  and 
quite  unconscious  of  her  state,  singing  nursery  songs, 
laughing  much,  and  altogether  in  a  state  in  which  it 
pained  him  to  see  her,  for  he  has  always  been  devoted 
to  her.  He  is  sure  he  will  never  see  her  again,  and  he 
said  it  pained  him  so  much  that  when  he  went  to  say 
good-bye,  before  going  to  the  station,  she  would  only 
laugh  and  sing.  However,  I  think  laughing  imbecility 
rather  less  dismal  than  weeping  imbecility, 

I  must  now  go  round  to  hospital  and  dismantle  my 
chapel  there  and  pack  up  the  things  that  are  my  own  and 
send  back  those  I  borrowed  nine  months  ago  from  the 
nuns,  I  am  glad  to  go  nearer  to  England,  but  the  actual 
packing  up  is  rather  melancholy,  I  am  sure  I  shall 
feel  much  more  cheerful  myself  once  the  move  is  over 
and  done.  I  daresay  you  can  find  the  place  we  are  going 
to  on  the  map  of  France  in  the  big  green  Atlas:  Dannes- 
Camier,  near  Etaples  (between  Etaples  and  Boulogne). 
It  will  (I  believe)  prove  to  consist  chiefly  of  a  big  hotel, 
turned  into  a  hospital,  with  scarcely  any  town  or  village. 
However,  we  shall  see. 

Wilcox  is  really  very  philosophical:  he  loses  a  tremen- 
dous lot  by  going,  but  he  takes  it  very  resignedly,  saying, 
"Well,  I've  had  a  grand  time,  and  I  shall  always  have  it 
to  look  back  on  all  my  days.     It  couldn't  last  for  always." 

It  really  shows  a  good  as  well  as  a  sensible  mind  to  be 
so  much  more  alive  to  having  had  many  comforts  than  to 
the  grievance  of  having  them  no  longer. 

I  must  stop  now, 

Wednesday,  January  12,  1916 

No  mail  to-day,  and  none  yesterday!  I  hate  these 
irregularities,  because  I  always  think  that  in  the  course 
of  them  some  letters  are  lost  altogether.  But  I  have 
no  doubt  it  is  no  one's  fault  (except  the  Germans')  and 


John  Ayscough^s  Letters  to  his  Mother       381 

on  the  whole  our  war-post  is  wonderful,  and  an  immense 
boon  and  comfort  never  known  in  any  previous  war. 

The  result  of  no  mail  yesterday  or  to-day  is  that  I 
have  nothing,  literally  nothing,  to  tell  you;  the  hospital 
has  discharged  all  its  patients,  and  will  take  in  no  new 
ones  till  we  are  installed  in  our  new  quarters. 

The  sun  is  feebly  trying  to  push  his  frosty  nose  through 
a  curtain  of  clouds,  and  I  must  say  I  hope  he  will  succeed: 
but  he  hasn't  succeeded  yet.  I  am  going  in  to  Paris 
to  lunch  with  the  Austin-Lees,  and  I  think  it  will  be 
my  last  trip  there.  It  will  be  odd  being  out  of  reach 
of  it.  I  have  got  to  know  it  far  better  than  I  know 
London. 

Lady  Austin-Lee  is  really  sorry  at  my  departure.  .  .  . 
Even  the  Pringles  write  in  desolation  from  Biarritz, 
though  I  can't  see  that  it  can  make  much  difference  to 
them  whether  I  am  in  Versailles  or  the  Pas  de  Calais. 

I  am  sending  you  a  New  York  Herald  —  is  not  the 
cheek  of  the  Austrian  Government  sublime?  It  seems 
that  a  party  of  Austrians  interned  in  India  are  being 
sent  back  to  Europe  in  a  ship  called  the  "Golconda," 
and  the  Austrian  Foreign  Office  demands  the  most 
precise  information  as  to  the  ship's  appearance,  date  of 
sailing,  etc.,  lest  her  submarines  should  torpedo  it  in 
mistake  for  an  ordinary  English  ship  with  only  English 
passengers!     Now  I  must  get  ready  for  Paris. 

January  13,  1916 

Last  evening,  when  I  came  in  from  Paris,  I  found 
two  letters  from  you  dated  Saturday  and  Sunday,  but 
to-day  there  is  again  no  mail  up  to  now.  In  one  of  the 
two  letters  received  yesterday  you  announce  the  departure 
out  of  this  life  of  poor  old  Togo. 

Our  days  at  Versailles  are  drawing  rapidly  to  a  close: 
this  is  Thursday  and  on  Sunday  morning  we  depart; 
in  fact  the  advance  party  left  yesterday. 


382       John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

I  lunched  with  the  Austin-Lees  yesterday,  en  petite 
comite,  only  themselves,  myself,  and  the  Abbe  Dimnet, 
of  whom  I  told  you  last  week.  Lady  Austin-Lee  was 
quite  depressed  at  its  being  my  last  visit,  and  Sir  Henry 
was  very  cordial  and  nice. 

We  hear  that  the  new  place  is  very  muddy;  if  so  I 
shall  send  for  my  gum-boots  again,  but  don't  send  them 
till  I  write  and  ask  for  them. 

It  is  another  of  the  sour  dismal  days  we  have  had  so 
many  of,  and  really  they  depress  me:  my  present  malady 
is  also  depressing:  the  loss  of  blood,  of  course,  weakens 
one,  though  I  have  plenty  to  spare!  If  I  were  at  home 
I  would  try  a  week's  complete  rest  in  bed,  but  it  is  not 
possible  here  just  as  we  are  on  the  move.  After  walking 
even  a  little  I  am  so  much  worse  that  I  am  sure  a  week's 
rest  in  bed  would,  on  the  contrary,  do  wonders:  and 
when  we  get  to  Dannes-Camier  perhaps  I  shall  try  it. 
The  hospital  won't  be  organised  again  for  a  week  or  two. 

Friday y  January  14,  191 6 

No  mail  again,  to-day  either!  It  came  late  yesterday, 
and  perhaps  will  come  late  to-day,  but  it  is  a  nuisance  its 
being  so  irregular  of  late.  It  was  your  letter  of  Monday 
that  I  received  yesterday  afternoon,  the  letter  in  which 
you  announce  poor  Togo's  funeral.  One  thing  which 
always  strikes  me  about  your  letters  during  many  months 
now,  is  the  excellence,  clearness,  and  firmness  of  the 
handwriting.  Your  writing  is  younger  than  it  was  seven 
years  ago,  distinctly  so,  both  as  to  its  vigorous  firmness, 
and  as  to  the  shaping  of  the  letters:  there  is  not  a  shaky 
line  or  stroke  in  it;  and  one  would  say,  now,  it  was  the 
writing  of  a  woman  of  forty:  this  was  not  so  ten,  or 
even  six,  years  ago;  and  it  was  not  so  even  at  the  begin- 
ning of  the  war.  I  do  believe  that  God,  to  make  up  for 
all  that  you  have  had  to  lose  since  the  war  began,  has 
given  you  a  new  lease  of  life. 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother       383 

You  say  the  morning  was  fine  and  bright,  and  so  is 
this  morning  here.  There  is  plenty  of  sun,  and  a  clear 
sky,  though  it  is  cold. 

To-day  I  read  a  very  interesting  short  book  (about 
sixty-five  pages)  by  Balzac,  called  the  "Cure  of  Tours," 
extraordinarily  grim,  bitterly  clever,  and  morosely  sad. 

I  must  stop  and  go  and  finish  the  packing  of  the  things 
at  the  "church"  (I  mean  the  little  chapel  in  the  hos- 
pital). 

Friday  Nighty  7  p.m.,  January  14,  1916 

On  Sunday  we  push  oflP:  I  don't  know,  no  one  knows, 
at  what  hour:  nor,  of  course,  do  we  know  in  the  least 
when  we  reach  our  journey's  end;  but  not,  I  suppose, 
till  Monday  morning.  All  trains  go  very  slowly  in 
France  during  the  war;  though  we  shall  not  have  the 
worry  of  changing,  even  at  Paris,  as  our  train  is  for  our- 
selves only;  for  ourselves,  the  officers,  nurses,  men,  and 
all  the  enormous  baggage  of  our  enormous  hospital, 
many  hundreds  of  beds  and  their  bedding,  tables,  cup- 
boards, crockery,  and  all  the  medical  and  surgical  equip- 
ment: besides  the  immense  store  of  linen,  hospital 
clothing,  etc.,  scores  and  scores  of  tons  of  stores,  cooking 
ranges,  and  a  countless  list  of  things. 

You  may  be  a  <lay  or  two  without  letters  from  me: 
I  can  post  this  to-morrow  (Saturday),  but  whether  I  can 
post  another  on  Sunday,  or  one  on  Monday,  I  don't  yet 
know,  only  too  probably  not. 

You  seem  to  think  that  at  Dannes-Camier  I  shall  be 
able  to  walk  into  the  German  lines  —  it  would  be  rather 
a  long  walk.  We  are  sixteen  miles  from  Boulogne  there, 
(on  the  side  away  from  the  front),  and  of  course  Boulogne 
is  far  behind  St.  Omer,  which  is  itself  a  good  way  back 
from  the  front. 

Nor  am  I  Hkely  even  to  walk  in  to  the  sea!  because  it  is 
not  like  Dieppe,  with  high,  precipitous  cliffs,  but  a  low 


384       John  Ayscough' s  Letters  to  his  Mother 

flat  shore  with  sand-dunes,  a  sort  of  place  where  I  shall 
like  walking,  and  which  fascinates  me.  It  is  only  three 
miles  from  Etaples,  where,  I  believe,  there  are  decent 
shops,  so  I  can  still  buy  a  boot-lace,  or  a  piece  of  note- 
paper. 

I  am  not  well  yet,  but  better  to-day  and  suffering  less. 

The  German  Emperor  seems  to  be  dying.  Wretched 
man:  if  he  is  really  dying,  what  a  miserable  end,  to  die 
with  all  the  world  in  anguish  caused  by  himself,  with  the 
spectres  of  millions  of  slain  men  accusing  him.  Alas, 
an  emperor  even  in  death  has  so  many  flatterers!  They 
will  do  their  best  to  prevent  his  repentance:  they  will 
repeat  the  old  lie  of  its  being  his  enemies  who  forced  the 
war  on  him.  I  can  only  pray  that  God  may  show  him 
the  stern  and  naked  truth,  so  that  his  death  may  tend  to 
end  the  miseries  he  has  caused:  I  mean  that  he  may  not 
die  encouraging  those  who  will  fill  his  vacant  place,  but 
warning  them.  If  he  should  indeed  die,  how  terribly  it 
must  affect  that  other  emperor,  himself  so  feeble,  Francis 
Joseph  of  Austria!  For  a  long  time  the  younger,  more 
forceful  man,  has  been  his  evil  genius,  and  he  has  all 
these  months  been  reaping  the  whirlwind  his  tempter 
made  him  sow. 

Of  course  the  German  Crown  Prince  is  as  war-like,  or 
more  so,  than  the  present  emperor,  and  the  rest  of  the 
War  Party  will  be  as  bellicose  as  ever:  but  the  Crown 
Prince  has  none  of  his  father's  power,  or  force  of  char- 
acter, or  capacity  for  insisting  on  his  will.  //  the  Emperor 
dies,  things  in  Germany  will  soon  be  at  sixes  and  sevens: 
and  the  people  will  probably  be  no  longer  kept  in  order. 
All  this  calculation  about  a  man's  death  is  rather  macabre^ 
but  it  is  inevitable. 

I  received  the  gloves  yesterday,  and  they  are  uncom- 
monly warm  and  comfortable,  and  will  no  doubt  keep 
my  hands  nice  and  warm  where  we  are  going.  Ever  so 
many  thanks,  dear,  for  them. 

I  must  dry  up. 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother       385 

Monday,  January  17,  1916 

We  left  Versailles  yesterday  at  two  o'clock,  and  at 
one  this  morning,  i.e.,  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  arrived 
here.  They  did  not  drag  us  out  of  the  train,  but  left  us 
in  peace  in  a  siding  till  eight  o'clock. 

The  journey  was,  of  course,  slowish:  but  quite  com- 
fortable. I  had  half  a  railway  carriage  to  myself,  i.e.,. 
there  were  two  officers  to  each  carriage,  so  I  had  all  one 
side  to  lie  down  on.  About  four  o'clock  we  stopped  in  a 
siding,  and  the  Sisters  made  tea  and  treated  us  all  to  it. 
At  nine  we  stopped  for  half  an  hour  at  Amiens,  and  I  got 
some  dinner  or  supper.  I  slept  quite  well,  though  it 
was  terribly  cold. 

This  is  a  big  camp  consisting  of  several  hospitals 
(field  hospitals,  only  tents),  situated  in  a  queer  sort  of 
natural  amphitheatre  formed  by  a  semi-circle  of  low 
clay  hills,  then  the  sand-dunes,  then  the  sea. 

(I  have  a  diabolical  pen  and  can  hardly  make  it  write.) 

There  are  big  Portland  Cement  works  here  and  there, 
which  do  not  improve  the  landscape.  As  soon  as  I  ar- 
rived a  mail  was  put  into  my  hands,  which  was  a  very 
pleasant  surprise,  for  usually  after  a  change  of  quarters 
it  is  some  time  before  one  begins  to  get  letters  again. 

Thursday,  January  20,  191 6 

Strange  to  say  the  sun  is  shining,  and  it  is  cold  and 
bright.  Yesterday  afternoon  a  violent  wind  arose  and 
blew  all  night,  so  fiercely  that  I  thought  my  tent  would 
blow  away  to  England.  It  flapped,  and  banged,  and 
rattled,  like  an  angry  virago.  And  the  rain  smacked  at 
it,  and  it  was  as  wild  as  you  like. 

I  got  quite  a  fat  mail  at  4.30  in  the  afternoon,  which  is 
when  the  English  post  comes  in.  Wilcox  has  been  in- 
valuable, both  on  the  journey  and  since  I  arrived.  When 
I  got  here  on  Monday  in  the  bitter  cold  there  was  not  a 


386       John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

place  for  the  sole  of  my  foot  to  rest  on  and  be  dry,  out  of 
the  universal  mud.  Wilcox  bit  by  bit  has  rigged  me  up 
quite  a  little  home  in  the  following  order:  (i)  a  tent: 
at  first  this  and  three  rugs  were  all  my  furniture  and 
housing.  And  I  had  neither  bed,  bedstead,  mattress, 
chair,  table,  basin,  anything.  (2)  He  found  me  two  half 
mattresses  so  that  I  did  not  have  to  lie  flat  on  the  ground. 
(3)  He  found  me  on  the  third  day  an  oil-stove  which 
warms  the  tent  thoroughly.  (4)  Last  night  he  found  me 
a  camp  bedstead,  so  that  now  I  am  raised  from  the 
ground.  (5)  He  found  me  a  bucket  to  wash  in.  (6)  He 
got  for  me  three  blankets,  so  that  I  am  very  warm  in  bed 
now,  and  don't  get  chilled:   before  it  was  miserable. 

I  don't  think  I  should  dislike  this  place  if  I  were  well, 
but  the  truth  is  I  can  hardly  walk  at  all,  cannot  walk  at 
all  without  great  pain,  and  the  camp  is  scattered  about: 
it  is  quite  a  long  way  to  the  "church  tent,"  where  I  say 
Mass,  and  by  the  time  I  get  there  I  am  scarcely  able  to 
say  Mass,  because  every  movement  hurts,  especially 
genuflexion.  And  you  see  I  am  not  keen  to  "go  sick": 
because  I  don't  want  to  be  invalided  home,  but  to  obtain 
re-appointment  to  Salisbury  Plain:  if  I  were  simply 
invalided  home  I  should  not  be  re-appointed  anywhere. 
So  you  see  I  have  to  proceed  very  cautiously. 

I  am  sending  home  some  parcels  of  things  addressed 
to  "John  Ayscough."  They  are  all  useless  here,  and 
only  in  my  way:  but  tell  Mary  to  throw  none  of  them 
away,  as  she  loves  to  do.  There  are  some  old  clothes, 
boots,  slippers,  etc.,  really  deserving  throwing  away,  but 
I  want  them  kept  because  I  used  them  at  the  front. 

One  of  the  parcels  to  be  opened  contains  a  small  brown 
paper  parcel  addressed  to  me  in  Italian,  it  comes  from 
Rome,  and  contains  some  silk  for  making  stocks  with: 
so  you  can  take  possession  of  that. 

I  must  stop  now. 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother       387 

Thursday  Evenings  January  20,  1916 

I  WROTE  to  you  this  morning,  and  instead  of  writing 
again  to-morrow  morning,  I  am  doing  so  now.  It  was 
sunshiny  when  I  wrote,  then  it  turned  to  sleet;  it  is 
now  a  cold  bright  moonlight,  with  a  strong  and  very  sharp 
wind:  but  quite  fine,  and  the  wind,  I  hope,  will  dry  up 
some  of  our  mud. 

I  wanted  to  buy  some  necessaries  for  my  tent  —  an 
enamel  washing-basin,  tooth-mug,  jug  for  water,  etc., 
and  went  to  Etaples  to  buy  them.  A  young  fellow  called 
Considine  took  me  in  in  a  motor-car,  and  it  took  very  little 
time  that  way.  He  is  a  gentleman,  of  good  Catholic 
family,  very  lame  and  so  unable  to  be  a  soldier,  but  he 
is  out  here  with  his  car  to  make  himself  useful,  and  so 
help.  There  is  an  excellent  huge  hut  here,  run  by  some 
Catholic  ladies,  of  the  Catholic  Women's  League,  as  a 
sort  of  club  for  the  men,  and  it  is  immensely  appreciated. 
Mr.  Considine  helps  them,  and  he  had  to  go  to  Etaples 
to  bring  out  the  day's  stock  of  cakes,  buns,  bread,  etc., 
for  the  men. 

The  short  drive  in  is  pretty:  on  one  side  the  downs, 
exactly  like  our  Wiltshire  downs,  so  like  as  to  make  me 
very  homesick.  Then  a  belt  of  low  dunes  covered  with 
stunted  Scotch-firs,  then  the  open  dunes,  behind  which  is 
the  sea. 

Etaples  is  a  spread-out  sort  of  little  town  of  endless 
mean  streets,  all  slums,  no  good  houses,  and  nothing  old 
or  picturesque:   I  suppose  the  inhabitants  are  fisher-folk. 

I  made  my  purchases,  and  then  took  shelter  from  the 
sleet  in  the  small  shop  where  Mr.  Considine's  cakes  were 
being  baked.  There  were  the  baker,  his  wife,  and  two 
mothers-in-law:  his  own  and  his  wife's.  And  of  course 
I  talked  to  them  all.  They  seemed  much  impressed  by 
my  French,  whence  I  conclude  that  most  of  the  English 
they  have  seen  talk  it  very  badly  indeed.  It  was  my 
first  occasion  of  talking  French  since  I  came  here,  except 


388       John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

to  a  few  wounded  Canadians  in  the  hospital.  But  I  am 
reading  plenty  of  it:  especially  the  "Memorial  de  Ste 
Helene"  which  is  intensely  interesting.  It  is  the  Journal 
of  Count  de  Las  Cases,  who  accompanied  the  Emperor 
to  St.  Helena,  and  was  his  Boswell.  It  notes  down  the 
Emperor's  talk  each  day,  and  Napoleon  talked  very 
well,  ranging  in  his  subjects  all  over  his  life,  his  various 
campaigns,  his  domestic  life,  his  imperial  life  and  so  on. 
I  am  never  uncomfortable  ^  when  I  have  books  to  read, 
and  am  thankful  I  brought  some  here. 

But  also  I  get  much  more  talk  here  than  I  used  to  get 
at  Versailles.  I  told  you  that  the  officers  whose  mess 
we're  using  for  meals  are  more  "conversible"  than  our 
own  lot,  and  they  seem  to  like  to  talk  about  books,  places, 
history,  etc. 

One  of  the  most  friendly,  and  most  clever  is  a  Jew 
called  Green.  His  father  was  an  English  Jew,  his  mother 
an  Italian,  and  he  was  brought  up  in  Italy,  and  talks 
beautiful  Italian. 

There  are  some  nice  Scotsmen,  Highlanders,  and  I 
generally  get  on  well  with  Scotch  people:  there  is  a  very 
rough  Belfast  man,  with  an  appalling  accent,  who  is, 
however,  both  friendly  and  intelligent.  He  himself  is 
an  Orangeman  by  birth  and  breeding,  but  he  admires 
Mr.  Redmond  much  more  than  he  does  Sir  E.  Carson. 
Of  course  all  these  people  are  doctors,  and  mostly  not 
really  army  doctors,  but  volunteers  serving  during  the 
war. 

.  .  .  There  is  one  young  Indian  doctor,  a  native;  not, 
I  should  say,  of  at  all  high  caste,  but  very  meek  and 
inoffensive. 

So  you  see  we  are  rather  a  menagerie.  So  far  as  I 
have  discovered  none  of  them  are  Catholics,  except 
Father  Ryan,  whom  I  am  relieving,  very  nice  and 
friendly.     He  knows  heaps  of  people  I  know,  especially 

1  At  this  time  and  for  many  weeks  before,  he  was  and  had  been  very  ill, 
suffering  tortures  of  pain.      [EdJ 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother       389 

a  whole  lot  of  Galway  folk  whom  I  used  to  meet  long  ago 
when  I  stayed  with  the  Redingtons  at  Kilcornan. 

The  Church  of  England  chaplain,  called  Symons 
(or  Simmons),  is  a  man  about  thirty-three,  a  gentleman, 
and  very  amiable.  He  comes  from  Bristol  and  knows 
people  I  know  there.  I  don't  think  I've  much  more  to 
tell  you,  and  it's  rather  clever  of  me  to  have  found  even 
so  much:  for,  I  think,  if  you  were  shot  down  among  all 
these  men,  you  would  say  they  were  all  the  same,  and 
that  one  name  would  do  for  the  lot. 

The  Colonel  of  this  lot  is  called  Hassard,  an  Irishman. 
He  called  out  to  me  the  first  day  "Hi!  Come  here! "and 
asked  if  I  had  not  gone  to  India  in  the  "Euphrates"  in 
1888;  and  I  said,  "Yes,"  and  that  I  remembered  him. 
He  said,  "No,  you  can't."  "Oh,  yes,  I  can;  and  you  are 
one  of  the  Hassards  of  whom  there  is  a  whole  clan  round 
Waterford  and  Kilkenny."  He  soon  found  I  knew  all 
about  his  people,  and  was  convinced.  Whereupon  he 
gave  a  grunt;  and  there  our  intercourse  began  and 
ended. 

I  must  shut  up. 

Friday  Midday^  January  21,  1916 

I  CAN  only  write  you  a  very  short  note,  because  in  a 
few  minutes  I  am  starting  for  Etaples,  where  I  am  going 
into  the  Officers'  Hospital.  I  did  not  "go  sick,"  but 
was  sent  sick:  one  of  our  Majors  came  into  my  tent  and 
asked  all  about  my  malady,  and  then  said,  "We  are 
going  to  send  you  to  hospital  to-day,  and  no  doubt  from 
there  they  will  send  you  home."  I  tried  not  to  go  sick, 
but  I  am  glad,  now  all  is  settled,  that  I  am  to  have  the 
rest.  Of  course  I  do  not  know  when  I  shall  be  sent 
home,  but  certainly  not  before  ten  days  or  so. 

You  can  address  your  next  letter  No.  4  General  Hos- 
pital and  Wilcox  will  bring  it  over:  as  soon  as  I  know 
the  correct  hospital  address  there  I  will  let  you  know. 
Major  Rahilly  said  that  he  thinks  it  certain  I  shall  be 


390       John  Ayscough^s  Letters  to  his  Mother 

sent  home,  and  very  unlikely  that  I  shall  be  sent  out 
again.  I  am  very  sorry  for  Wilcox,  for  he  is  truly  devoted, 
and  will  miss  me:  of  course  an  officer's  servant  has  many 
little  exemptions  and  privileges.  But  the  poor  fellow  is 
only  unfeignedly  glad,  for  my  sake,  because  he  knows 
how  out  of  sorts  I  have  been. 

The  motor  is  there  to  take  me  to  Etaples,  so  I  must 
stop. 

I  cannot  at  all  realize  that  probably  I  shall  soon  be  in 
England:  though  not  at  once  at  home,  as  I  should  first 
go  to  some  hospital  there,  and  then  be  "boarded"  i.e., 
be  examined  by  a  board  as  to  fitness  for  service  out 
here. 

I'm  sorry  I  can't  tell  you  anything  more  definite,  but 
I  cannot. 

Liverpool  Merchants'  Hospital,  B.  E.  F. 
Friday  Afternoon,  about  3  o'clock,  January  21,  1916 

I  WROTE  to  you  about  two  and  a  half  hours  ago,  just 
as  I  was  leaving  the  camp  at  Dannes-Camier  to  come 
here:  and  I  told  you  I  would  send  you  my  new  address 
as  soon  as  I  could. 

At  I.I 5  a  car  drew  up  at  my  tent  door  and  into  it  I 
got,  with  my  baggage,  and  the  ever-faithful  Wilcox, 
who  was  determined  to  stick  to  me  to  the  last  moment 
to  save  me  all  possible  trouble. 

It  is  no  distance  in  to  Etaples  and  only  took  about 
a  quarter  of  an  hour.  I  was  instantly  allotted  my  bed 
(14  B.  Ward)  and  then  /  instantly  demanded  a  bath. 
It  was  the  first  of  any  sort  for  a  long  time,  the  first  hot 
lie-down  hath  for  ages.     So  I  enjoyed  it,  I  can  tell  you. 

My  bed  is  very  comfortable,  and  the  Sister  in  charge 
a  very  attentive,  kindly  person;  but  of  course  I  have 
hardly  exchanged  half  a  dozen  words  with  her  yet. 

There  are  about  fifteen  beds  in  the  ward,  and  about 
ten  of  them  are  occupied.  I  don't  know  how  many 
other  wards  there  are.     I  have  just  been  given  a  thump- 


I 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother       391 

ing  dose  of  castor  oil  in  brandy,  so  strong  of  brandy  I 
could  hardly  taste  the  oil. 

I  imagine  this  is  called  Liverpool  Merchants'  Hospital 
because  the  money  for  it  is  found  by  the  merchant 
princes  of  Liverpool,  but  I  don't  know. 

The  address  is  as  I  put  it  at  the  head  of  this  letter, 
i.e.,  the  name  of  the  hospital  and  A,  P.  O.  S  11.  (S 
eleven).  I  don't  know  how  long  I  shall  be  here.  Perhaps 
two  weeks,  perhaps  a  good  deal  less.  If  they  discover 
that  I  require  an  operation  I  may  go  to  England  for  it: 
if  they  cure  me  here  I  don't  know  at  all  what  they  will  do. 
So  I  hope  they  wont!  I  should  certainly  be  glad  to 
suffer  less,  but  I  would  rather  be  cured  at  home. 

I  must  stop.  It  is  a  great  treat  to  be  so  comfortable 
and  I  can  tell  you  I  appreciate  it. 

With  best  love  to  Christie. 

You  can  tell  Christie  or  anyone,  that  I  am  in  hospital, 
and  may  very  likely  be  sent  home,  but  you  don't  know 
yet,  nor  do  I;  and  that  if  I  have  to  be  operated,  I  shall 
be  sent  home  certainly,  before  or  after. 

Friday  Evening,  7.30  p.m. 

Poor  old  Wilcox  has  just  walked  down  from  our  camp 
at  Dannes-Camier  (four  miles  each  way)  to  bring  me 
down  my  mail.  Poor  man,  he  could  only  look  at  me 
like  a  devoted  dog;  he  could  not  speak,  his  eyes  were 
pouring  down  tears.  I  think  he  is  quite  broken-hearted 
at  losing  me,  and  he  suffers  the  more  for  being  so  silent.^ 

The  doctor  has  just  examined  me  (the  doctors 
here  are  charming)  and  he  said,  "What  horrors  of  pain 
you  must  have  suffered  for  weeks!"  and  it  is  true.  He 
said,  "Tons  of  young  officers  come  down  from  the  front, 
who  have  not  suffered  a  hundredth  part  of  what  you 
must.  .  .  ." 

^  He  was  fully  aware  of  his  master's  dangerous  condition.      [Ed.] 


392       John  Ayscough^s  Letters  to  his  Mother 

To-morrow  they  are  going  to  put  me  under  an  anaes- 
thetic, and  examine  more  fully. 

The  hospital  is  very  comfortable,  and  I  do  appreciate 
it  after  Dannes-Camier.  I  am  so  glad  to  know  that  they 
are  working  away  well  at  the  well. 

Christie  writes  in  high  feather  and  says  Alice  is  coming 
to  see  her  on  Monday;  and  so  I  hope  she  will  be  well 
cheered  up.  There  is  no  such  person  as  "Lord  de 
Courcy."  The  de  Courcy  title  is  Kinsale;  and  Lord 
Kinsale  is  premier  Baron  of  Ireland,  and  has  the  odd 
privilege  of  being  able  to  "remain  covered"  (keep  his 
hat  on)  in  the  presence  of  the  sovereign. 

The  man  who  came  to  Malta  and  dined  with  me  and 
told  flaring  stories  was  Lord  Muskerry,  not   de  Courcy. 

I  hope  you  won't  build  too  much  on  my  getting  home: 
I  hope  to,  but  it  is  all  "in  the  lap  of  the  gods,"  and  the 
gods  won't  let  on  at  once  what  they  are  going  to  do. 
I  feel  easier  in  mind  and  body  since  I  came  in  to  hospital. 
For  weeks  and  weeks  I  knew  I  should  be  in  hospital, 
and  that  lots  of  the  patients  I  visited  in  our  own  hospital 
were  not  nearly  so  ill  as  I  was  myself,  but  I  tried  to 
"stick  it"  and  did.  The  journey  to  Dannes-Camier 
was  a  trial,  and  the  rough  conditions  there.  Now  it  is 
all  settled  and  I  am  comfortable  in  mind  and  body. 
The  struggle  is  over,  and  it  is  not  a  defeat,  as  I  did  not 
"go  sick,"  but  was  sent. 

I  will  shut  up."^ 

Monday  i  January  24,  19 16 

I  HAVE  had  a  very  good  night,  and  am  doing  very  well. 
I  had  some  food  this  morning,  for  the  first  time  since 
Friday  —  I  mean  solid  food,  i.e..,  an  egg  and  a  piece  of 

'  Next  morning  Ayscough  was  "  operated  ":  he  felt  so  nearly  sure  of  dying 
that  from  daylight  he  was  writing  off  farewell  and  business  letters  concern- 
ing his  affairs,  to  be  posted  after  his  death.  I  have  constantly  heard  him 
laugh  at  himself  for  this,  and  say,  "  So  much  for  the  value  of  presenti- 
ment."     [Ed.] 


'John  Ayscough^s  Letters  to  his  Mother       393 

toast.  Before  that  only  tea,  and  (yesterday  night) 
custard.  They  seem  to  think  I  have  picked  up  very 
promptly,  for  I  don't  really  feel  very  weak.  I  suffer 
still,  of  course,  and  must  till  the  wounds  are  healed, 
but  I  suffer  less  than  I  expected. 

Still  I  can't  sit  up  much  and  you  must  excuse  this 
short  scribble. 

I  received  your  letter  of  Thursday  last  night  —  Alice 
will  be  going  to  you  to-day.  I  think  it  will  do  you 
good.  .  .  . 

Tuesday  Morning,  January  25,  1916 

I  CAN  only  write  you  a  line  or  two  to  tell  you  I'm 
getting  on  all  right.  Yesterday  I  wrote  too  many  notes 
and  knocked  myself  up.  I  am  getting  on  all  right,  but 
I  suffer  a  good  deal  still,  and  I  didn't  have  a  very  good 
night  last  night.  Father  Ryan  came  down  from  Dannes- 
Camier  to  see  me  yesterday  morning,  and  one  of  the 
Sisters  in  the  afternoon.  Of  course  Wilcox  came.  His 
grief  over  my  illness  is  quite  pathetic.  I  had  your  letter 
written  on  Saturday  last  night.  I  can't  write  more 
because  I  am  lying  down:  yesterday  I  sat  up  and  tired 
myself  out.     With  best  love  to  Christie  and  Alice. 

Wedgies  day,  January  26,  1916 

I  HAD  a  very  good  night,  and  feel  much  more  comfort- 
able. Of  course  I  still  suffer  a  good  bit,  sometimes 
miserably,  but  they  say  that,  after  the  first  week,  it  will 
be  much  better.  You  must  not  mind  my  only  writing 
these  brief  bulletins  at  present.  It  tires  me  sitting  up 
and  tires  me  writing.  I  hear  nothing  yet  about  my 
return,  but  then  I  am  of  course  quite  incapable  of  travel- 
ling yet,  and  there  will  be  no  talk  of  it  till  I  am  (capable). 
Wilcox  comes  every  day,  and  is  as  devoted  as  ever.  I 
will  give  him  your  note  to-morrow.  I  slept  the  whole 
night  last  night. 


394       John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

The  Director-General  of  Medical  Services  (Sir  Arthur 
Sloggett)  is  coming  round  this  morning  and  they  are 
busy  getting  ready  for  him.  I  can't  write  more,  it  makes 
my  back  ache. 

Thursday,  January  27,  1916 

Your  letter  of  Monday  afternoon  arrived  last  night, 
Wednesday;  I  daresay  if  it  had  caught  the  early  post  at 
Winterbourne  it  would  have  arrived  here  on  the  following 
evening.  I  am  getting  on  well,  and  had  a  hath  this 
morning,  the  first  since  the  operation.  It  was  very  nice, 
and  nothing  relieves  the  discomfort  and  pain  more. 

Yesterday  I  received  enclosed  from  the  Cardinal: 
you  will  see  that  it  is  very  kind  and  cordial  in  tone,  and  I 
feel  now  sure  that  he  will  take  up  my  case  vigorously. 
The  Bishop  of  Clifton,  too,  will  keep  on  at  it. 

The  Bishop's  letter  was  written  before  he  had  heard 
from  me  from  this  place.  Now  he  knows  of  my  opera- 
tion, etc. 

No,  you  did  not  tell  me  before  of  Lady  Glenconner's 
visit.  .  .  . 

Two  officers  that  used  to  belong  to  my  old  unit  at  the 
front  came  to  see  me,  and  were  very  pleasant. 

I  must  stop  now.  I  hope  Alice  is  livening  you  up. 
I  am  not  feeling  very  weak,  but  the  pain  is  often  harassing 
still,  and  will  be  till  the  wounds  of  the  operation  are 
healed  and  the  stitches  come  out. 

Best  love  to  Christie  and  Alice. 


Friday,  January  28,  1916 

I  AM  tired  and  can  write  you  but  a  word  to  say  I'm 
doing  well. 

Last  night  I  had  an  enormous  mail  —  letters  from 
you,  Christie,  Alice,  the  Bishop,  his  Secretary,  W.  Gater, 
the  Cardinal,   the   Duchess   of  Wellington,   Lord   Glen- 


John  Ayscough^s  Letters  to  his  Mother       395 

Conner,  Marquise  de  Montebello,  Lady  Austin-Lee,  F. 
Keating  {The  Month) y  and  I  am  nearly  worn  out  answering 
them.  The  actual  writing  does  not  fatigue  me:  it  is  the 
position  in  which  I  have  to  do  it. 

I  can't  conceive  why  AHce  should  not  have  slept  as 
usual  in  my  old  room  over  the  kitchen:  and  it  worries 
me.  I  suppose  you  thought  /  might  swoop  down!  But 
there  will  be  no  swooping.  I  am  not  likely  to  be  out  of 
this  hospital  for  some  little  while:  and  should  probably 
be  then  transferred  to  an  English  one  till  out  of  doctors' 
hands.  You  say,  "Why  not  come  home  and  let  civilian 
doctors  do  it  all?"  I  don't  think!  There  is  no  point 
in  being  ill  at  one's  own  expense,  when  one  falls  ill  in 
service. 

Winifred  said  she  found  you  so  well,  and  so  pretty, 
with  a  nice,  healthy  colour. 

January  29,  1916 

I  HAD  a  good  night,  but  am  feeling  "poorish"  this 
morning.  I  suppose  it  must  be  so  for  a  time:  but  I 
suffer  so  at  times  that  I  feel  quite  collapsed  afterwards. 
I  shall  not  write  many  letters  this  morning,  but  rest. 
I  meant  to  have  written  to  Christie  and  Alice,  but  am  not 
quite  up  to  it.     Give  them  my  love. 

One  of  the  volunteer  nurses  here  is  a  Miss  Bibby. 
Do  you  remember  the  name  in  Shropshire  long  ago.'' 
The  Bibbys  live  near  Baschurch  (the  home  of  the  Jebbs 
of  the  School)  at  a  place  called  Hardwicke  Hall  (not  the 
Kynastons'  Hardwicke,  of  course),  and  she  used  to  hunt 
round  Ellesmere  and  our  neighbourhood.  We  have 
great  talks  and  she  is  now  eager  to  read  "Gracechurch." 
She  is  very  good  to  me  and  brings  me  all  sorts  of  things. 

The  reason  I  changed  to  pencil  in  writing  this  letter  is 
that  the  ink  in  the  fountain  pen  I  was  using  gave  out. 

I  must  stop. 


396       John  Ayscough^s  Letters  to  his  Mother 

Sunday,  January  30,  1916 

I  FEEL  better  to-day  than  any  day  since  the  operation. 
And  the  doctor  examined  the  place  yesterday,  and  told 
the  Sister  after  that  I  was  doing  very  well,  that  it  was 
healing  well,  and  he  was  very  well  pleased  with  it.  As  I 
suffer  a  good  deal  still  I  was  beginning  to  feel  uneasy, 
wondering  if  it  was  all  right:  and  so  I  am  glad  to  hear 
this.i 

It  has  turned  very  cold:  and  I'm  glad  not  to  be  in 
that  tent  at  Dannes-Camier. 

Our  mail  comes  in  about  six  p.m.  Last  night  there 
was  none,  and  we  were  told  the  boat  had  put  out  but 
had  to  return  to  England  owing  to  enemy  craft. 

Wilcox  walks  down  each  evening,  and  looks  at  me, 
(tearfully!)  and  goes  away  again.  He  looks  so  lonely, 
poor  man. 

Best  love  to  C.  and  A. 

Monday,  January  31,  19 16 

It  is  terribly  cold;  if  I  sit  up  in  bed  I  get  frozen.  I 
shall  therefore  only  write  you  a  word  to  say  I'm  im- 
proving steadily,  if  not  as  quickly  as  I  should  like. 

I  had  very  nice  letters  from  Mr.  and  W.  Gater.  Please 
thank  them.  Also  excellent  letters  from  Bert  and  Mary: 
I  like  their  letters;  there  is  no  convention  and  filling  out 

with   phrases.     Poor  writes   ever  so  lovingly,   but 

simply  clatters  'the  Lord"  around  my  head  like  a  set  of 
castanets. 

Of  course  I  do  not  get  up  yet,  but  am  always  in  bed, 
and  while  one  is  ill  I  think  it  the  best  place. 

We  seem  to  be  always  having  a  meal  or  meal-let. 

7  A.M.  tea  I   P.M.  luncheon 

8  A.M.  breakfast  4  p.m.  tea 

II  A.M.  lunch  7  P.M.  dinner 

I  must  stop.     God  bless  you  and  with  love  to  Christie. 

*  It  had  been  uncertain  whether  the  conditions  were  cancerous.       [Ed.] 


John  Ayscough^s  Letters  to  his  Mother       397 

February  i,  19 16 

When  I  awoke  this  morning,  after  a  very  good  night, 
I  found  a  bundle  of  letters  by  my  side  which  had  arrived 
in  the  night,  and  among  them  your  letter  of  Saturday. 

It  is  beastly  cold  this  morning,  and  sitting  up  I  get  my 
hands  frozen.  You  know  how  cracked  nurses  and 
doctors  are  about  open  windows,  and  it  is  a  hard  black 
frost. 

There  is  an  "evacuation"  this  morning,  i.e.,  a  lot  of 
patients  sent  home,  three  out  of  ten  officers  in  this  ward 
gone.  I  wonder  when  my  turn  will  come:  but,  as  I 
told  you,  I  would  rather  complete  my  cure  here,  where 
it  costs  me  nothing:  after  that  the  sooner  the  better. 
I  don't  envy  them  to-day,  for  it  will  be  a  bitter  cold 
journey. 

Poor  Mary  and  Bert  seem  so  really  delighted  at  the 
prospect  of  my  getting  home.  I  hope  whenever  you  do 
see  me  walk  in  you  won't  be  sick  at  me  as  you  were  at 
Mrs.  Taylor!! 

I  must  stop. 

February  2,  1916 

The  "Major"  (he  is  really  a  civiHan  doctor,  a  very 
eminent  surgeon  and  specialist  from  Liverpool,  who  is 
serving  here  as  a  volunteer)  has  just  examined  me  again, 
and  he  says  it  is  getting  on  very  well;  there  is,  however, 
still  inflammation,  and  the  wounds  are  not  yet  healed  up. 
I  told  him  that  I  did  not  want  to  go  home  till  I  was  at 
least  very  nearly  cured,  and  he  quite  understood.  He  is 
very  nice,  and  so  is  the  Colonel-Commandant  here  .  .  . 
very  kind  and  sympathetic.  To-day's  was  my  first 
chance  of  a  good  plain  talk  with  the  Major  and  as  it  all 
now  rests  with  the  doctors,  I  am  very  much  relieved  in 
my  mind  to  have  had  it.  I  had  been  watching  for  the 
opportunity  a  long  time. 


398       John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

Three  of  our  officer-patients  went  out  (to  England) 
yesterday,  but  three  more  came  in.  They  are  all  wounded 
but  not  at  the  front!  One  in  a  game  of  football,  one  in  a 
motor-accident,  one  while  doing  gymnastics.  Very  dull, 
isn't  it? 

I  suffer  very  little  pain  now,  and  am  really  enjoying 
the  rest  and  comfort  in  hospital. 

You  speak  of  its  being  a  "house,"  but  it  isn't.  It  is  a 
collection  of  huts,  built  in  Liverpool  and  sent  out  here 
all  ready  to  put  up. 

I  must  dry  up. 

Thursday  y  February  3,  1916 

I  HAVE  been  longing  to  begin  my  letter  for  the  last 
two  hours  (for  it  is  nearly  twelve  o'clock,  and  at  twelve 
o'clock  our  post  goes  out),  but  another  officer  has  been 
sitting  on  my  bed  telling  me  all  about  British  Guiana, 
and  I  thought  he  never  would  stop.  It  was  quite  in- 
teresting if  I  had  not  wanted  to  be  writing.  He  was  a 
planter  out  there  and  doing  very  well,  but  threw  it  all 
up  and  came  home  to  Europe  to  fight  England's  enemies. 
I  know  now  all  about  a  planter's  life  in  British  Guiana 
—  the  sort  of  houses  they  live  in,  their  pretty  gardens, 
the  snakes,  alligators,  "tigers"  {i.e.y  pumas),  dances, 
niggers,  natives,  Indians  (all  different)  and  so  on. 

I  told  you  this  was  a  hut,  but  it  is  a  very  nice  one: 
this  ward  about  one  hundred  feet  long  and  twenty  broad, 
a  good  height,  and  very  well  built. 

I  must  stop.     I'm  doing  very  well. 

February  4,  19 16 

I  HAVE  just  come  back  to  bed  after  a  trip  to  the  bath- 
room; after  the  first  week  I  began  to  have  a  bath  each 
day,  and  it  really  does  me  more  good  than  the  fomen- 
tations used  to  do,  as  both  doctors  and  nurses  had  the 
sense  to  recognise  at  once.  I  always  feel  much  easier 
after  it,  though  a  little  tired. 


John  Ayscouglfs  Letters  to  bis  Mother       399 

You  will  be  glad  to  hear  that  I  am  notably  better, 
better  each  day.  Presently,  in  another  day  or  two, 
they  will  let  me  up.  Then  the  next  stage  will  be  trans- 
ference to  some  hospital  in  England;  and  the  next  after 
that,  I  hope,  a  board  which  will  allot  me  sick  leave,  so 
that  I  can  go  home. 

Another  man  here  had  an  operation  for  the  same 
thing  as  I  the  day  before  yesterday,  but  in  his  case 
the  trouble  was  slight,  and  he  suffered  scarcely  anything 
either  before  or  after  the  operation. 

We  have  had  English  game  several  times  —  pheasant, 
and  jolly  good  ones.  The  Liverpool  people  send  us  fresh 
eggs,  vegetables,  grapes,  oranges,  bananas,  and  all  sorts 
of  little  luxuries.  I  must  say  it's  very  good  of  them. 
I  keep  my  fruit  to  give  to  Wilcox,  because  he  adores  it 
and  I  don't:   the  rest  I  gobble  up  myself. 

Miss  Bibby  makes  us  excellent  sandwiches  for  tea. 
She  is  very  good  but  I  can  see  that  she  is  tired  out  ("fed 
up,"  as  the  soldiers  say).  She  has  been  nursing  ever 
since  the  war  started,  and  it's  very  hard  work,  especially 
the  being  on  your  feet  for  over  twelve  hours  each  day. 

Saturday,  February  5,  191 6 

It  is  a  fortnight  to-day  since  the  operation,  and  I  am 
almost  quite  well:  at  first  I  seemed  to  myself  to  make  no 
progress  at  all,  but  for  the  last  five  days  I  have  steadily 
improved  daily. 

The  doctor  (the  Major)  is  going  to  examine  me  again 
this  morning,  and  I  believe  I  shall  then  be  given  my 
"ticket"  for  England.  That  is,  a  sort  of  label  will  be 
put  up  over  my  bed  saying  I  am  for  the  next  lot  who  go 
over  to  England.  One  would  probably  remain  here  four 
or  five  days  after  that. 

Whenever  I  do  go  I  shall,  as  soon  as  I  get  to  England, 
send  you  a  telegram  to  let  you  know  I  am  there:  but 
you  must  not  expect  to  see  me  for  some  time  after  that, 


400       John  Ayscough^s  Letters  to  his  Mother 

as  I  shall  have  to  go  first  to  some  hospital  for  some  short 
time. 

I  write  every  day  to  you:  I  did  not  even  miss  the  day 
of  the  operation,  but  it  seems  to  me  that  you  get  my 
letters  very  irregularly:   I  am  so  sorry. 

With  best  love  to  Christie  and  Alice. 

Sunday 

Postscript:  The  Major  has  just  examined  me  again 
and  I  am  to  have  my  "ticket."  That  means  I  shall  go 
over  with  the  next  convoy,  possibly  to-morrow,  possibly 
Tuesday  or  Wednesday.  So  I  don't  think  there  is  any 
use  in  your  writing  to  me  till  you  hear  where  I  am  — 
it  will  probably  be  London. 

Monday^  February  7,  1916 

It  is  pouring  down  in  a  fierce  rattling  deluge,  and 
poor  Wilcox  arrived  from  Dannes-Camier  in  the  thick  of 
it  —  drenched.  But  it  is  the  sort  of  passionate  rain 
that  doesn't  last,  and  already  there  is  a  wild  gleam  shin- 
ing through  it,  so  I  hope  he  will  have  it  dry  and  warm 
to  walk  back. 

You  see  I  am  still  here;  and  here  I  may  be  for  days, 
just  as  I  may  be  oflF  at  any  moment.  You  would  not 
like  that,  would  >ou?     The  uncertainty,  I  mean. 

You  cannot  think  how  nice  Colonel  Peake  and  Major 
Littler-Jones  are  here,  how  kind  and  cordial:  and  the 
nurses,  too. 

Tuesday y  February  8,  1916 

I  BELIEVE  it  was  on  this  day  last  year  (and  at  about 
this  hour)  that  I  received  the  War  Office  letter  telling 
me  that  I  was  to  come  out  here  again  at  once,  and  it 
seems  a  great  deal  more  than  a  year. 

No  convoy  yet,  so  you  see  I  am  still  here;    however 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother       401 

I  am  in  very  good  quarters,  and  as  I  am  not  cured  yet, 
I  might  as  well  be  in  one  hospital  as  another. 

Friday  is  my  birthday;  by  then  I  expect  I  shall  be  in 
London. 

Yesterday  afternoon  I  had  a  long  visit  from  Captain 
McDonald,  one  of  the  officers  of  my  own  "unit"  —  No. 
4  General  Hospital.  He  stayed  over  two  hours  and  had 
tea,  and  was  very  amiable.  It  seems  they  have  received 
no  patients  yet  since  coming  from  Versailles. 

I  wish  Alice  could  stay  on  till  I  get  back:  I  should  so 
much  like  to  tell  her  the  history  of  the  last  year. 

Wednesday,  February  9,  1916 

You  see  I  am  still  here;  but  I  expect  there  will  be  a 
convoy  very  soon,  and  then  I  shall  be  off:  one  never 
knows  long  beforehand  when  there  is  to  be  a  convoy. 
However,  I  have  my  things  all  ready. 

Last  night  I  had  your  letter  written  on  Sunday  and 
a  lot  of  other  letters  same  time:  a  very  kind  one  from 
Lady  Portsmouth.  During  the  war  they  live  almost 
entirely  in  London,  or,  she  says,  she  would  have  gone  over 
to  see  you. 

It  is  very  cold  here  to-day,  but  bright.  Yesterday 
we  had  thunder,  hail,  black  storms  of  rain,  and  wind. 
Wilcox  said  the  sea  was  very  rough,  so  I  was  not  sorry 
that  I  was  not  crossing. 

I  hated  writing  the  article  in  the  Month,  but  I  felt  it 
a  sort  of  duty;  English  people  7iever  realise  what  France 
suffers  from  the  war. 

I  have  been  nearly  three  weeks  in  this  bed  —  three 
weeks  the  day  after  to-morrow,  and  now  I  sometimes 
get  the  fidgets,  just  as  you  do.  All  the  same  it  is  far 
more  comfortable  in  bed  than  hanging  about  in  the 
draughts  of  the  ward.  Miss  Bibby  is  off  duty  with  a 
bad  cold,  and  it's  a  judgment  on  her  for  her  passion  for 
opening  windows  in  all  directions. 


402       John  Ayscough' s  Letters  to  his  Mother 

I  must  stop.  I've  a  pain  in  ''me''  back  from  sitting 
up  in  rather  a  crunchy  position. 

February  lo,  191 6 

I  HAVE  an  idea  that  this  will  be  my  last  letter  from 
France.  The  Colonel  told  me  last  night  that  he  did  not 
think  there  would  be  any  convoy  to-day,  but  that  there 
would  be  to-morrow,  and  the  convoys  usually  leave 
here  early  in  the  morning  so  as  to  catch  the  boat  that 
leaves  Boulogne  or  Calais  about  11.30. 

So,  if  that  is  so,  and  all  goes  well,  I  shall  be  in  London 
by  the  afternoon  of  my  birthday. 

Last  night,  just  as  I  was  settling  down  to  sleep,  the 
mail  came,  and  two  letters  from  you  dated  Saturday 
and  Monday. 

I  am  writing  with  the  most  abominable  pen  I  ever 
suffered  from,  like  a  bent  pin,  and  it  is  almost  impossible 
to  make  it  write  at  all. 

Yesterday  afternoon  I  had  a  long  visit  from  Colonel 
Butler,  one  of  my  former  brother  officers  of  No.  15 
Field  Ambulance;  he  has  for  a  long  time  now  been 
commandant  of  a  hospital  at  Boulogne.  He  had  plenty 
to  tell  me  of  our  old  lot:  and  he  declared  that  I  look 
much  better  now  than  when  I  was  up  at  the  front.  / 
don't  think  so. 

Friday y  February  11,  191 6 

I  EXPECT  you  will  be  getting  very  impatient  —  it  is 
so  many  days  since  I  told  you  I  should  be  going  over 
with  the  next  convoy :   and  still  I  am  here. 

I  really  thought  I  should  be  going  to-day,  for  yesterday 
they  brought  my  luggage  into  the  ward,  where  no  luggage 
is  allowed  till  patients  are  leaving.  When  the  night- 
Sisters  came  on  duty  last  night,  I  said  good-bye  to  the 
day-Sisters,  not  expecting  to  see  them  again.  But  they 
are  all  back  again  and  I  am  still  here. 


John  Ayscouglo  s  Letters  to  his  Mother       403 

It  is  a  beastly  day,  so  in  that  way  I  do  not  lose  much 
by  not  having  to  travel  —  a  dismal  persistent  rain,  and 
very  bleak  and  cold,  too.  So  bed  is  not  a  bad  place  to 
be  in,  after  all.  It  is  three  weeks  to-day  since  I  came 
into  hospital  and  I  certainly  had  expected  to  be  in  Eng- 
land long  before  this.  However,  one  must  be  patient 
and  I  must  be  off  soon  now,  as  it  is  more  than  a  week 
since  there  was  a  convoy. 

This  is  my  fifty-eighth  birthday  and  the  second  I  have 
spent  in  France:  not  that  it  feels  Hke  France  here,  for 
one  never  sees  a  French  person  or  hears  a  word  of  French. 

I  have  read  about  twenty  books  since  I  was  in  here, 
and  am  now  reading  again  "Feats  on  the  Fiords"  by 
Harriet  Martineau,  which  you  read  aloud  to  me  about 
(almost  exactly)  fifty  years  ago.  It  is  worth  a  hundred 
of  the  books  written  now. 

Mrs.  Arnoldis  Hospital  for  Officers ,  London 

Sunday,  February  13,  1916 

I  ARRIVED  here  just  now  (and  it  is  jolly  comfortable). 

We  left  the  Liverpool  Merchants'  about  ten-thirty 
yesterday  morning:  and  I  was  carried  on  a  stretcher 
(fearful  humbug)  to  the  motor,  thence  in  an  ambulance 
motor  to  the  train:  I  was  carried  into  the  train,  after 
which  I  flatly  refused  to  be  carried  any  more  and  walked 
on  board  at  Calais. 

We  reached  Calais  at  three,  but  did  not  sail  till  6.30 
this  morning,  and  got  to  Dover  at  8.30  after  a  hateful 
crossing  —  I  wasn't  sick,  but  very  nearly. 

I  hope  to  be  given  sick  leave  in  a  very  few  days;  pos- 
sibly on  Tuesday  or  Wednesday. 

Monday 

There  is  no  chance  of  my  getting  a  board  or  getting 
home  for  a  few  days. 

This   morning   I   was   examined    by   the   house   doctor 


404       John  Ayscough^s  Letters  to  his  Mother 

(Dr.  Menzies)  and  the  consulting  surgeon  (Dr.  Swinford 
Edwards),  and  they  immediately  decided  that  a  very 
trifling  further  operation  was  necessary,  and  I  went 
straight  up  to  the  operating  theatre  and  it  was  done, 
without  any  anaesthetic.  The  surgeon  shook  me  warmly 
by  the  hand  and  said,  "You  are  plucky,  splendidly 
plucky." 

I  am  quite  all  right,  and  able  to  eat  a  most  excellent 
luncheon  and  dinner:  and  this  afternoon  I  had  two 
very  pleasant  visits  —  Cardinal  Bourne  for  an  hour  and 
a  half,  and  Lady  O'Conor  for  two  hours;  but  was  not 
in  the  least  tired. 

The  Cardinal  was  ever  so  nice,  so  simple  and  friendly 
and  kind. 

But  of  course  I  shall  have  to  stop  in  bed  a  day  or  two. 

This  operation  is  a  mere  nothing.  It  hurt  a  little  but 
not  much. 

Both  the  Cardinal  and  Lady  O'Conor  thought  me  look- 
ing very  well! 

Tuesday y  February  15,  19 16 

I  RECEIVED  your  letter  of  yesterday  afternoon  this 
morning. 

I  fear  you  won't  get  mine  of  yesterday  afternoon  till 
this  afternoon:  for  London  post  goes  out  at  five  o'clock, 
and  if  you  miss  that,  country  letters  don't  get  delivered 
till  afternoon  post  of  next  day. 

I  couldn't  catch  the  five  o'clock  general  mail,  because 
Cardinal  Bourne  came  the  moment  I  had  finished  lunch- 
eon, and  stayed  till  nearly  four,  when  Lady  O'Conor 
came,  who  stayed  till  after  six.  The  Cardinal  was  so 
nice,  cordial,  kind  and  simple. 

Both  he  and  Lady  O'Conor  said  I  looked  so  well,  in 
spite  of  having  had  another  httle  operation  in  the  morning. 

This  afternoon  Lady  Portsmouth  is  coming,  she  has 
just  telephoned  to  say  so. 


John  AyscougFs  Letters  to  his  Mother       405 

It  is  comfortable  here,  and  I  have  a  large  room  all  to 
myself. 

Here's  luncheon! 

I  have  written  seven  longish  letters  and  am  tired! 
I  hope  to  get  my  board  about  Friday  and  then  will  come 
home:  but  meanwhile  I'm  in  bed.  I  wonder  why  you 
only  got  my  wire  on  Monday;  it  was  sent  off  from  Dover 
about  8.30  A.M.  on  Sunday. 

While  I  am  writing  a  man  is  photographing  me  (in 
bed),  despatched  by  the  Press  Photographic  Agency. 
Isn't  it  funny?  He  is  to  send  you  down  a  copy  to-night. 
He  is  a  queer  little  hunchback,  with  a  clever,  witty  face, 
and  he  says,  "That  War  Office!  it  won't  take  me,  and 
all  my  friends  are  at  the  front." 

I  told  him  he'd  much  better  stay  at  home,  for  he  looks 
terribly  sickly  and  delicate,  but  he  said,  "Better  chaps 
than  me  have  to  take  their  chance;  why  shouldn't  I 
take  mine?" 

The  Daily  Graphic  telephones  that  it  wants  to  interview 
me!  So  as  soon  as  I've  got  rid  of  the  Press  Agency  man 
I  shall  have  them  on  my  hands. 

I'm  doing  very  well  and  am  very  comfortable,  but  still 
in  bed;  the  wound  of  the  new  operation  is  not  quite 
healed,  and  I  shan't  be  allowed  up  till  it  is,  I  expect. 

Yesterday  Lady  Portsmouth  came  and  spent  a  couple 
of  hours,  and  had  tea  here.  She  was  very  nice  and  we 
had  great  talks.  She  brought  me  beautiful  flowers 
from  Hurstbourne.  My  room  is  full  of  flowers  sent  or 
brought  by  diff"erent  people  —  camellias,  snowdrops, 
violets,  azaleas,  daffodils. 

Lady  O'Conor  telephones  asking  for  leave  to  come 
again  this  afternoon. 

I  got  your  letter  written  yesterday  afternoon  this 
morning. 


4o6       John  Ayscough^s  Letters  to  his  Mother 

Wednesday 

I  HEAR  that  the  doctors  do  not  wish  me  to  leave  here 
before  Monday.  They  are  very  cautious,  and  Hke  to 
keep  any  case  under  observation  till  they  are  sure  it  is 
all  right. 

As  I  am  getting  the  best  doctors  in  England  for  noth- 
ing I  think  it  much  better  to  take  advantage  of  it.  Dr. 
Donald  Hood,  the  King's  Physician,  is  to  see  me  before 
I  go.  It  is  odd  that  staying  in  bed  four  weeks  has  not 
weakened  me  at  all,  but  only  rested  me.  That  no  doubt 
is  partly  due  to  the  fact  that  they  have  fed  me  up  like 
a  little  pig  ever  since  I  came  in  hospital. 

I  am  so  glad  Cyril  Gater  has  been  promoted.  Please 
congratulate  them  for  me. 

Thursday y  February  ly^  1916 

Yesterday  I  wrote  to  you  twice,  so  I  have  all  the  less 
to  say  to-day. 

I  had  a  visit  from  a  representative  of  the  Daily  Graphic^ 
then  a  short  one  from  the  Marchioness  of  Ormonde; 
then  I  was  overhauled  by  the  King's  Physician,  Dr. 
Donald  Hood;  finally  Mrs.  Arnoldi  (who  runs  this 
hospital)  came  and  talked. 

There  are  very  many  and  excellent  nurses  here,  and 
the  hospital  is  viost  comfortable,  the  food  first  rate  and 
the  drink  too  (the  latter  all  combes  from  the  King). 

I'm  very  comfortable  here,  and  as  long  as  doctoring, 
etc.,  is  needed  I  may  as  well  get  it  for  nothing. 

Friday,  February  18,  1916 

After  luncheon  yesterday  Lady  O'Conor  came  and 
stayed  a  long  time.  She  is  a  staunch  and  devoted  old 
friend,  and  we  talked  over  dozens  of  other  old  friends. 
Her  sister  is  in  terrible  trouble;  Wilfrid  Ward,  her  hus- 


John  Ayscough' s  Letters  to  his  Mother       407 

band,  and  Herbert's  father,  has  had  a  bad  operation, 
and  they  now  say  he  has  consumption  of  the  tissues  and 
must  die,  perhaps  in  a  few  weeks. 

I  had  a  very  cheery  letter  from  the  Bishop  (CHfton) 
to-day;  he  says  that  the  chaplain  at  Tidworth  bolted 
to  Ireland  last  week  without  saying  "nothing  to  nobody," 
and  the  sacristan  wrote  to  the  Bishop  that  the  enormous 
congregation  there  had  no  Mass  or  anything  on  Sunday. 

I  received  enclosed  last  night;  I  don't  remember  the 
female  at  all,  and  am  not  attracted  by  her  letter.  I  wish 
so  many  people  would  not  want  to  come  and  see  me. 
I  think  of  telephoning  to  this  one  that  I  can  only  give  her 
half  an  hour,  and  perhaps  she  won't  care  to  come  for 
that. 

The  Medical  Board  is  coming  to  sit  on  me  here,  on 
Monday  at  2.30.  I  am  not  decided  yet  whether  I  shall 
go  down  that  evening  or  wait  till  a  morning  train  on 
Tuesday. 

The  only  train  I  could  catch  on  Monday,  after  the 
board,  would  be  the  5.50  from  Waterloo,  and  that  would 
reach  Salisbury  after  eight,  so  I.  could  not  reach  you  till 
nearly  nine. 

However,  I  will  think  it  over  and  let  you  know  in  good 
time. 

Saturday,  February  19,  1916 

Besides  myself  there  are  five  other  officers  to  be 
"boarded"  on  Monday  afternoon,  so  the  board  will 
probably  take  some  time,  and  I  think  I  had  better  give 
up  the  idea  of  getting  off  on  Monday,  and  make  up  my 
mind  to  go  down  by  daylight  on  Tuesday.  Lady  O'Conor 
telephones  that  she  wants  to  come  again  to  see  me  this 
afternoon;  she  is  very  good  and  sends  me  quantities  of 
books,  flowers,  etc. 

Yesterday  I  had  a  long  visit  from  a  priest  I  had  not 
met  for  thirty  years  —  Father  Coventry.  He  saw  my 
portrait   in   the   newspaper   and    came   to   look   me   up. 


4o8       John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother 

He  had  much  to  tell  me  of  my  fame,  etc.,  and  how  many 
people  were  forever  talking  to  him  about  my  writings! 

I  haven't  been  allowed  up  yet,  but  I  just  told  the 
doctor  that  I  intended  to  go  out  and  say  Mass  to-morrow 
morning,  and  he  said  "all  right."  I  shall  go  to  the 
**Servites,"  a  priory  in  Fulham  Road  ten  minutes  from 
here,  where  Father  Coventry  belongs;  I  shall  not  walk, 
but  go  in  a  taxi. 

I  have  been  very  lucky  in  both  my  hospitals,  the  nurs- 
ing and  doctoring  being  first-rate  in  both:  Littler- Jones 
operated  me  so  well  at  Etaples  that  Dr.  Swinford  Ed- 
wards here  (who  is  the  specialist  surgeon  for  my  disease) 
said  after  examining  me  that  he  could  not  even  feel  the 
scar  of  the  fissure. 

Of  course  it's  a  great  advantage  to  have  the  very  best 
surgeons  and  physicians  in  England  for  nothing  at  all. 

To-day  began  sunny,  but  has  turned  very  dark  and 
lowering;  in  five  minutes  it  will  pelt. 

Sunday^  February  20,  191 6 

I  AM  writing  this  at  a  table,  the  first  letter  I  have 
written  out  of  bed  for  just  a  month, 

I  got  up  at  7.15  this  morning,  dressed,  and  went  In  a 
taxi  to  the  Servite  Priory  in  Fulham  Road,  and  said 
Mass  there.  The  monks  gave  me  breakfast,  and  then 
I  walked  home.  It  is  no  distance,  only  about  ten  minutes 
walking  slowly,  but  I  found  it  quite  enough. 

It  is  now  nearly  twelve,  and  at  twelve  I  am  going  for 
a  short  motor-drive  with  Captain  Neale,  one  of  the  other 
officer-patients  here.  He  and  I  came  together  from 
Etaples.  Then  I  shall  have  luncheon  and  go  back  to  bed 
for  the  remainder  of  the  day. 

I  shall  go  home  on  Tuesday;  unless  you  hear  to  the 
contrary,  by  the  train  reaching  Salisbury  at  five,  which 
should  bring  me  home  a  little  before  six.  Yesterday 
I  had  three  visitors. 


John  Ayscough's  Letters  to  his  Mother        409 

First  Lady  O'Conor,  who  was  very  nice,  as  she  always 
is;  but  her  accounts  of  poor  Wilfrid  Ward,  her  brother- 
in-law,  Herbert's  father,  very  bad.  I  fear  he  cannot 
last  long. 

Then  Miss  Fanny  Charlton,  who  looked  amazingly 
well  and  young;  she  was  in  very  good  form,  and  fired 
off  a  series  of  anecdotes.  .  .  . 

I  have  been  out  for  the  motor-drive,  and  am  delighted 
to  get  in  again.  It  was  an  open  car  and  there  was  a 
shrewd  east  wind.  We  drove  round  the  park,  which  was 
full  of  people  showing  themselves  after  church, 

I  must  stop  now  and  go  back  to  my  bed  and  my  hot 
bottle! 

Monday  Afternoon 

Just  a  line  to  tell  you  that  the  board  has  passed  me 
fit,  after  a  month's  leave,  for  home  service  per- 
manently unfit  for  Foreign  Service. 

I  could  have  had  six  months*  leave  if  I  had  wanted  it, 
but  I  said,  "No,  one  month." 

Here's  the  Editor  of  the  Weekly  Dispatch. 


THE    END 


AA    000  832  981    5 


